In a Constant State of Flux
by One-Eternity-Drive
Summary: When the buzzing in her head overwhelms her to a point where she can no longer stand it, the summer between Junior and Senior year leads her somewhere she least expected.
1. Reset

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or any other Copyrighted thing I mention throughout this story.

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><p>It starts how it always starts. The incessant stinging behind the bridge of my nose that inevitably leads to the faint tickle in the back of my throat. They're on their way. I know that tickle will grow into something more the longer I stand here, staring at the oak door seems to get farther and farther away from me with each passing second. I honestly don't even know what possessed me to drive all the way over here this early in the morning, knowing full well that this would most likely end in a disaster.<p>

I just… I just couldn't get it out of my head. It's as if he left a time bomb in my brain after the funeral, and now that school's let out, it finally detonated, leaving me in this constant disoriented state that I can't seem to get away from. It's all I seem to think about- it's the only thing I can concentrate on for more than a few minutes. No matter how many College Applications I fill out, or how many books I read can wipe out those six words he said to me. Carved right in the front of my thoughts is, "Do you even feel anything, anymore?"

_Dammit_. I slide my hand across my eyes, rubbing a bit too hard in the process, when my vision suddenly turned blurry. So much for a person that doesn't 'feel'. I _feel_ plenty. It's feeling that's got me standing in front of her door, twirling my fingers around the ends of my skirt like an idiot, waiting for an answer.

I hear what sounds like lazy footsteps trudging down a flight of stairs before the fiddling of locks behind the door. I throw my hand over my eyes one last time, hoping to hide any traces of my vulnerability, before the door swings open.

Rachel's standing there, in a tank and dark shorts, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with one hand while the other rests on the door. Sluggishly, she removes her hand from her face and blinks a few times before placing it on the door frame. "Quinn?" I watch her shake her head a few times to verify that it was actually me standing in her doorway. "Quinn, are you crying?"

I shove my hands inside the pockets of my cardigan, gripping them from the inside for support. I lower my head towards the ground and take a breath before I ask, "Hey. Do you, uh, do you wanna go for a walk with me?" My voice betrays me and doesn't come out as strong as I wanted. Instead it comes out broken and choppy like my thoughts.

She leans backwards inside her house, looking at something in the distance, while I play with the contents of my pocket nervously. I know this is not going to end well. When she leans forward again, she stares at me with her eyebrows raised and her mouth slightly ajar. "Quinn, it's 6:30 in the morning." She runs a hand through her tousled hair, letting out a small groan as well. "You drove all the way to my house at 6:30 on a Tuesday morning to ask if I wanted to go for a walk?"

I hadn't even realized I was biting down on my cheek when a sigh escapes my lips. I shuffle my feet and position my head away from Rachel while she continues to stare at me with that questioning look on her face. _Dammit_.

"I knew this was stupid." I mumble in one breath. I turn around towards my car, silently cursing myself in the back of my head. "Just forget it, alright." I add over my shoulder. I should have known any attempts to make amends would be for nothing. I should've just stayed in bed. I should've just kicked these thoughts to the back of my head, buried with everything else back there.

"Quinn!" Her fingers, which were unexpectedly rough, grip around my elbow and pull my arm out of my sweater's pocket. When I turn around to look at her, she lets go of my arm, and I notice a slight flush apparent on her face. "I didn't say I didn't want to go," she starts. I rake a hand through the front of my hair, moving it in front of my eyes to block her out slightly, before placing it back in my pocket. "Just, just hold on, okay."

Rachel slowly turns, still a bit dazed from sleep I assume, and heads back inside her house. She disappears behind the doors for only a moment before re-appearing. With her brow furrowed, she asks, "Do you want to wait inside?" My eyes glance around the Berry's front yard, contemplating on going in. On the plus side, despite the overabundance in sun, it's slightly chilly outside, so going inside would provide some much needed warmth. On the other hand, if one of the Berry men leaves for work and finds the girl who tormented their daughter for years sitting in their foyer, it would probably end with me getting kicked out their house. And I cannot handle that.

I shake my head no and remain at my spot near the curb. The mere idea of going in her house and possibly facing her parents is too much right now. I'm still on edge, still in this fluxuating place of emotions because of what he said. I glance over at the door to find that Rachel has already bounded up the stairs, leaving me by myself once again. Being alone with my thoughts isn't an unfamiliar occurrence for me, especially now that it's summer. The lack of a job has left me alone to pretty much do whatever I want, which for me, so far only consists of eating, sleeping and the need to drive my head into a wall because of my constant shifts in mood. To be honest, Finn's comment isn't entirely to blame for it. It's the accumulation of all the drama that was junior year that's causing this odd disposition. Who knew trying to get 'back on top' would lead to me crashing down almost as bad as I did sophomore year.

"Okay, I'm ready." Rachel brushes past me lightly, fitted in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized zip-up hoodie hanging limply off her tiny frame. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and afterwards, rubs her arms for warmth. With a small smile she asks, "Anywhere in particular?"

I shake my head once again and take off down the block. I don't have a destination in mind, nor do I know her neighborhood well enough to suggest walking anywhere. I just needed to talk to her. It doesn't matter where we go, as long as we're on foot. Walking, along with reading, seems to be one of the only things that helps focus my mind. Somehow, when I'm focusing on my breathing or how many cracks there are in a single sidewalk, it helps me concentrate my thoughts. I suppose it takes me out of the situation long enough for me to re-evaluate my emotions.

Counting the cracks doesn't seem to be cutting it today, though, since Finn's voice is still echoing around in my head. With a sigh, I look around at the other houses in the neighborhood. They're actually…quite nice. I've never really been on this side of town before and the one time I was at Rachel's house, I was too drunk to notice anything. I can't even stop the groan that escapes me at that memory. According to Finn, "Angry!Quinn" got loose once my hands got loose with the alcohol. If only I can remember. I can vaguely recall yelling at Puckerman, Brittany running around without her shirt and Rachel in that horrible green—

"Umm…Quinn…" Rachel's voice breaks my concentration, and out the corner of my eye, I can see her speed up to follow me. I didn't even realize that I had walked off without her. How long have I been walking? I angle my head down to discreetly look at my watch and see that it reads 6:45. Fifteen minutes that quickly? "I'm assuming you wanted to talk to me about something."

My eyes gravitate towards my hands, wriggling them around a bit as we come to a stop. We've ended up standing at the corner of an intersection. I look over at Rachel, who motions for a clearance across the street. A park. We cross in silence, and once we reach the opening, she leads me down a path paved with tree bark. I can't help but note how beautiful the foliage looks now that it's fully come in. I've always envied people born in the summer months; they have the perfect weather for their special day.

Rachel's studying my face again, waiting for me to respond. I anxiously stuff my hands back in my sweater pocket again while my eyes roam the park. I refuse to make eye contact for some reason. "Are you dating Finn now?" slips out of its own accord.

I don't even need to look at her directly to know I hit a sore spot. I can see her shoulders deflate out of my peripheral at the mention of his name. She comes to a halt, and I do the same. "I should have known the only reason you wanted to talk to me was because of a boy."

She turns, and heads back in the direction we came. No. Was that how it came off? "Rachel, wait." I walk over to her, crossing in front of her so she has nowhere else to go. "I didn't come to ask you about Finn." She raises an eyebrow and folds her arms. "He's a part of it, but, it's not really about him." I prod further with, "So, are you two dating?"

Rachel licks her lips and breaks eye contact with me for a fraction of a second. Her face seems droop momentarily before it tightens up. Reluctantly, she responds. "No, we are not dating." I close my eyes with relief, but open them again as she continues, "After Nationals, we tried, but I ended it." She ends so surely with an air of confidence that I want to ask what happened. But I don't.

Is it ironic that the guy who I cheated on for, dumps me for the girl who cheated on him and ends up getting dumped by her? Is it sad that this has become my life?

I wrinkle my lips as I concentrate on what I'm about to say. I glance over at the trees briefly before looking back into her eyes. "I only asked because I was curious." Her head cocks to the side and she squints her eyes at me. Okay, so this isn't going how I planned. I clear my throat and try again. "When Finn broke up with me at Jean's funeral, he said something to me that I haven't really had time to think about until now. He asked me if—"

"Wait, what?" Rachel holds up a hand and cuts me off mid sentence. I look at her genuinely confused at her outburst. "He broke up with you at Jean's funeral?"

Oh. I'd almost forgotten about how bad that sounds to an outsider. I've pushed that memory so far to the back of my mind that I didn't even really think about the situation of our breakup. Mercedes had the same reaction when I told her and I practically had to beg her not to rip his head off in my behalf. Not that I wasn't pissed, it's just I realized that Finn wasn't really worth my time. I breathe out heavily through my nose, "Yeah, stand up guy, I know." She shakes her head with obvious disappointment. "That's also why I asked if you two were dating. I didn't want to say anything about him if he was still your boyfriend."

"That was low." I notice that her hand slowly curls into a fist. "Really low of him."

I smooth a bit of hair behind my ear, trying to fight off the nerves. "Well, technically it was after the funeral, but that's not the point." Rachel leans closer towards me. "After he broke up with me, he asked me if I…" Breathe deeply Fabray, breathe deeply. "He asked me if I even 'feel anything anymore'. He seems to think that I am this, this walking being, void of emotion or something like that." It's interesting to watch her face go through a series of emotions from shock, to annoyance to finally concern. Although I told Mercedes of the breakup, I didn't tell her the details. I didn't tell anyone the details until now.

"That's ridiculous." I look down to see her eyes shifting rapidly across my features. She raises a tentative hand to the crook of my elbow and holds me there. "Don't take this the wrong way, Quinn, but you're one of the most emotional people I know."

A small chuckle that seems to some from nowhere releases hollowly from my lips. "Thanks." She removes her hand from my arm, leaving it much colder than it began. "I know I'm not emotionless, but I also know I'm not the most open person in the world. I can be really guarded with how I'm feeling most of the time." I suddenly become hyper aware of how much colder it's gotten, and I look up through the tree tops to see a cloud sweeping across the sun. "I'm telling you this Rachel because as much as it would have pained me to admit this a few years ago…I always seem to show my emotions around you."

I'm afraid to look her in the eyes, so I turn my attention to the ground, watching the bark underneath my feet. Suddenly, the tips of her sneakers come into view as she moves closer towards me. I keep my head to the ground and continue. "No matter how awful I am to you or how hard I try and push you away, you seem to be one of the few people that can get an emotional response out of me." I move my eyes around the park, but make sure that they don't come in contact with hers. "I spent my entire High School career creating this immaculate image of myself to keep my emotions at bay, yet you say one thing to me and it all comes falling down."

Sunlight on my skin breaks through my monologue, and forces me to wrench my head upward towards the sun. The cloud has passed, and I can feel the warmth seep through my sweater. Taking a deep breath, I look back down into Rachel's eyes. The girl must truly be a performer because they're already glistening. I shift my weight onto my left leg and clear my throat once more. "That being said, I want us to start over." Her eyes seem to contract in shock. Was it really that hard to believe that I wanted to change? "I know that I've said that we were friends before in the past, but I really mean it now." Once again I seem to deflate her mood at my poor choice of words; her shoulders slump and her mouth hangs slightly open. "Not that I didn't mean it before, it's just, I had other things on my mind at the time. Like winning Prom Queen or some other stupid reason." I mumble the last part, hoping that the allusion to Finn would be lost somewhere between my lips and her ears. "But I want that to change. There's got to be a reason that you seem to get something out of me. Even when I don't want to. I lose Prom Queen, and somehow end up in the bathroom with you, sharing feelings that I've never even spoken aloud before. I mean, that's gotta count for something, right?"

The only time I've ever had this much trouble breathing properly was when I gave birth. It takes me several, mostly failed attempts to accumulate enough oxygen in my lungs to finish. "So, in short: I'm sorry for waking you up so early and asking you to go on a walk with me, but I just had to get it off my chest." The stinging begins again and I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to delay the tears from flowing. "So…whatya say? Do you want to start over?"

When I look down through slightly clouded eyes, Rachel's studying my face once more. It really must be hard for people to believe that I want to change for the better. Her eyes begin darting around the corners of my mouth, waiting for me to curl them into a smile, no doubt. Slowly, they travel up to my eyes, and I move the hand that's pinching my nose to swipe across my eyes. Attempting to clean away the wisps of wetness cleaning to them, I probably only made them more obvious. Of all the adjectives used to describe me, awkward has never been one of them, but after today, I'll be sure to put it to the list. To only add to it, I hold my arm out for her to shake. That's right Fabray, drag a girl out of her house early in the morning and shake her hand in an empty park. Nice.

As it turns out, its Rachel's lips that curl upward into a smile and I note that her ears move up with the movement as well. She's standing much closer to me than she was when I first stood in front of her, and to be honest, it's somewhat unsettling. I've never been one for physical contact, I often shy away from it actually, and I only tolerated it for the Cheerios long enough for me to be hoisted to the top. It's pathetic that even my extracurricular activities symbolize my constant need for attention and power.

Her smile widens some more and she lets out, "I'm going to hug you now." Before I can even get my protest out, she's pushing my hand away and wrapping her arms tightly around my midsection. So much for her 'tiny frame', because I can feel the muscles in her arms, even through the sweater, bringing me into a crushing hug. Huh. That's…odd. Despite the fact that her arms are cutting off my circulation, it's not so bad. Between the warmth from the rays of sunshine seeping through the trees and Rachel, I'm no longer cold.

She pulls back before I even have a chance to respond by wrapping my arms around her. Her fingers dab at her eyelids and I can see her fingers glistening from the tears she wiped away. She's still got that smile plastered on her face when she unzips her hoodie and ties it around her waist. When she finishes, she moves a few steps away from me and places her hands on her hips.

"Can I be honest with you Quinn," she starts. I nod, pushing the sleeves of my cardigan up to my elbows. "I thought you were going to talk to me about Nationals. It may have been almost three weeks since then, but I still receive threatening messages from Santana on Facebook." A strained giggle falls heavily from her lips while a cloud seems to flash across her face. "I'm still somewhat upset with myself about the whole ordeal, so I thought you were as well."

Losing at Nationals is the least of my problems right now. "I'm not mad at you Rachel." The cloud seems to have passed over her face and a smile returns to it.

"Do you feel better?" she asks curiously. "You seem as though you've wanted to get that out for a long time."

I blow out of my mouth, causing my lips to roll. Rachel has never been more right about anything than she is about that. "Yeah," I sigh out, "I feel a lot better."

Rachel nods and lightly taps me on the shoulder. "Good." She moves to my side, looking around the park that's gotten much brighter since we first entered. "Well, it's still early. Do you want to continue walking through the park?"

As great as that sounds, I've had enough for today. "I would love to, but I'm kind of tired Rachel. I think I'm just going to go home."

She throws me an understanding smile, but I think I see a hint of dejection hiding beneath it. We both turn and head out the park, walking back to her house in silence. I would be lying if I said I thought that Rachel wouldn't have accepted my apology, because the girl's forgiven me more times than I can count. Still, the fear of rejection still lingers with everything I do. Getting kicked out of your house is enough to make you second-guess and over think everything you do that involves another person. It gets frustrating having to plan out every aspect of your conversations beforehand to come up with all possible outcomes. Then to make those outcomes sway in your favor is just another task. When something comes up that you don't expect, like "Do you even feel anything, anymore?", coming up with an appropriate response that doesn't completely shatter you takes time.

The thoughts are already bouncing around in my skull, so I lower my head to the ground, counting the cracks to keep my thoughts focused. I seem to be doing this more and more every day. At least this time it seems to be working. The constant buzzing in my head of ideas rebounding all over the places seems to have subsided for now. My SUV comes into view and I finally become aware of the fact that we're pretty much at Rachel's house.

We come to a standstill at our destination and I pull out my key ring, opening the car doors with the automatic button. When the noise sounds, Rachel and I turn towards her front window, where a pair of shadowy figures, obscured by the curtains, are walking around the house.

"My fathers are up," she breaks the silence.

"Yeah," I respond lamely. "I'm gonna get going now." Moving towards my car, I open the passenger side door and throw my sweater inside. I slam the door shut and through the window, I can see Rachel standing in front of her door.

"Hey Quinn," she calls out. We make eye contact briefly in the window before I slowly turn around to look at her. "Is it alright if I call you sometime?" She asks with such uncertainty that it kills me to think the girl is so scared just to speak with me on the phone. You'd think after wanting to get her nose surgically crafted to resemble mine, she wouldn't be so hesitant to talk to me. "Or text, if it's preferred?"

"Yeah, Rachel. It's what friends do." She flashes me that Rachel Berry Broadway smile and sends me a small wave before heading in her house.

Before the door closes completely, I can hear a deep voice ask, "Where were you, honey?" I walk around to the driver's side door and get in, pulling my wrist to my face to look at my watch. 7:50. With a sigh, I put the key in the ignition and head home.

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><p>The normally 30 minute drive from Rachel's house to mine somehow ended up in a 2 hour trip around Lima and back. When I close the front door shut, I can already hear my mother puttering around in the kitchen. I am <em>so<em> not in the mood this morning.

I slip my shoes off near the rug by the door, and silently tip toe near the stairs. I get about half way up when I hear, "Quinnie! Come in here!" Wonderful.

Taking my time, I walk back down the stairs, through the small hallway that separates the dining from the foyer, and into the kitchen. My mother's sitting down on a stool, flipping through the pages of "Good Housekeeping" with a cup of coffee in one hand. She looks up at me with a smile, gesturing to the stool on the opposite side of the table. Grudgingly, I take a seat.

"Where were you this morning?" she asks causally, sipping her drink. "I looked in your room and you were already gone." Ever since I moved back in with her, she hasn't been the typical "over-bearing" parent, but she's definitely kept a much closer eye on me than she did in the past. It's not uncommon for her to go into my room in the middle of the night, just to make sure I'm there.

I guess I'd do the same if my teenage daughter got pregnant at 16.

"I was out with Mercedes," I answer in my usual whisper. I my heart, I don't really know why I won't tell her I was with Rachel. But in my mind, I know it's because I'd rather not explain why I tore out of my bed in the early morning hours just to see someone that I used to hate. "She wanted to speak to me about a summer job," I add, hoping she would believe me.

Mother places the cup down with a soft _clink!,_ and the smile fades from her face. "That's funny because…" she reaches in her lap and pulls out my cell phone. "You left this here and Mercedes called around 8 asking for you." _Dammit_. That seems to be my word of the day. Heat rises to the tips of my ears and I know it's starting to spread across my cheeks. "Wanna try again?" she finishes.

If we were any mother/daughter combination who could joke around with each other, I would have mumbled someone else's name, most likely Santana for safety, until we ended up in a laughing fit, joking around until the truth eventually came out. Unfortunately, we weren't.

"Listen Quinn, if you snuck out to be with a boy, I just want to be kept in the loop." My eyes widen at her accusation. A boy? Why does everyone think that they're all I care about? "I'm not barring you from dating. After all, I welcomed Sam and Finn with open arms. I just want to know if you're wi—"

"I was with Rachel." I interrupt in a whisper lower than I originally planned. The lines on her forehead wrinkle further in confusion. At least I don't have to hear the emptiness in her voice when she talks to me about being with boys.

She raises an eyebrow and closes her magazine. "The 'Rachel' that wanted your nose?" I suppose it's better than "The Rachel whom you Drew Pornographic Pictures of on the Bathroom Stall". At least she doesn't know about that.

"Yes, that Rachel."

Mother picks up her cup again, fixing that smile back on her face. "See, now was that so hard?" She stands and heads towards the sink, with her back to me, tossing the contents of the cup in the sink. "It's nice that you're making new friends Quinnie."

I reach out and grab my phone, tucking it safely in the pocket on my skirt. "Yeah." I breathe out. "Um, can I go now?"

She turns her head, looking me up and down. I don't even remember standing, but I'm now leaning in the archway of the opening to the kitchen. "Yes, you can go." I'm already out through the walkway before she can even finish her sentence. "I'll be leaving around 4 today, okay!"

Since the divorce, Mother's been forced into the working world for the first time in almost 20 years. Because of that, she's been temping at agencies with the most ridiculous hours. There will be weeks on end where she's working all evening shifts then it'll suddenly switch to her working morning shifts. For the past week or so, she's been working evening shifts, giving us 'quality' time together in the morning.

When I reach my room, I make sure to close the door shut, giving me a few minutes of solace before she tries to 'connect' with me again. I should give her some credit at trying to bond with me, but I can't bring myself to open up to her. Not just yet, anyway. I flop down backwards on my bed, going through the events of this morning. Well, at least I got something accomplished: I'm one more step closer to being an actual human being than I was yesterday.

My hands reach into my skirt pocket and pull out my phone. I run my fingers over the screen until I find Mercedes' number. I bring the phone to my ear when I hear ringing on my end. After a few seconds, her melodic voice fills the emptiness in my room.

"Hey girl. I called earlier but your mom picked up." It's a breath of fresh air to hear something familiar after a morning of stepping out of my comfort zone. "There's a _massive_ sale going on downtown. I haven't seen you in a while, so, wanna come with?"

"I went to see Rachel this morning." The words fall out of my mouth before I'm even aware of what I'm saying. I can tell by the silence that she's thinking about what my motives are.

"Quinn, if this is another step in your personal vendetta against Rachel - I Must Have All the Solos – Berry, I'm gonna tell you to just stop now. It's getting old."

I roll my eyes and run a hand through my hair. "Actually, Mercedes, I went to see her to make amends."

"Wait, you went all the way to Rachel's house at 8 in the morning to 'make amends'?" I can practically feel the air quotations she's doing on her end.

"It was more like 6:30, but yes, I just felt it was necessary."

She laughs and it comes out a cross between comical and skeptical. "You're more capricious than people give you credit for." _Tell me about it._ "So, how'd it go?"

There's a vibrating against my ear that causes me to pull the phone away from my head. It's a new text message notification. I touch the screen and the massage illuminates across my face:

'**Hello Quinn. If you are free tomorrow, I was wondering if you wanted to do something. I have a number of suitable activities for us to do, unless you have something in mind. ~Rach Berry.'**

I grumble and put the phone back to my ear. "Let's just say, I have a feeling it's going to be a _long_ summer."

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><p>The title of this chapter is inspired by Mutemath's "Reset"<p> 


	2. On Impulse

**Authors Note:** I make a reference in this to Dianna Agron's (Quinn) hair. A few weeks ago, her hair was turning a slight pinkish color and I kept that detail in for this version of Quinn.

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><p>"At least you're heading out at a decent hour this morning." My mother's drowsy voice coming from the couch surprises the living <em>hell<em> out of me and causes me to drop my purse, its contents spilling out on the floor.

"Jesus Christ in Heaven!" I scream out, clutching my heart to hopefully stop it from pounding.

"Sorry Sweetie. I didn't mean to scare you," she mutters into the air.

Bending down, I gather the items in my arms and shove them back in my bag. I roll my eyes, but catch her gaze from across the carpet. "It's alright," I say heavily. She's still wearing the clothes she wore from last night, including her shoes. It amazes me that the woman can lose her husband and her status in this town, yet goes to work wearing Christian Louboutin pumps. "What time did you get in?"

She shifts and pulls off her jacket, placing it on the ottoman with a yawn. Her arms stretch above her head while she looks at the grandfather clock hanging on the wall. "About 2:45. Sometime around there."

The only good thing about Mother working late shifts is that she's too tired to do anything else. That includes letting herself get lost in a bottle of Moyet. I can't tell you the number of times that I've waited for her to stumble home from something other than exhaustion. The things you grow accustom to have a habit of never leaving you, I guess.

"Where are you going?" she asks, mumbling into the pillow that she's now gripping tightly. I silently ponder whether I should risk telling her another lie, seeing as how she's so sleepy she'd probably forget that this conversation ever happened, but I go against it. I stand, gripping my purse firmly around the handle.

"I'm going out with Rachel." She makes a noise into the pillow, and I'm suddenly really grateful that I don't have to spend the rest of the afternoon in the house with her. I know that she'd most likely grill me on the abruptness of my new friendship and I just don't have the energy to explain anything to her.

"That's nice. You've got to get of this house sometime." She says, opening her eyes. "Do you need any money or…"

I shake my head. "No, I have enough. Thanks though."

Mother mumbles something that sounds like "Good, good", before turning her back to me and burying her head deep into a cushion. Muffled, I can hear her say, "Call me if you need anything."

"Sure," I say before I'm out the door. Not like it's going to happen, anyway.

I get into my car and make my way to Rachel's house, checking the clock every few minutes. I should arrive around 10:30 if traffic is well, and I want to get there on time. After I texted her back, she just told me to meet her at her house at half-past 10, without telling me what she had planned for the day. It's what I get, I suppose, for letting Rachel pick the activity.

Not that I object completely, it's just that there really isn't much to do in this town other than go to the crappy theater or eat at Breadstix. I've gone to that restaurant so many times with Santana that I'm waiting for the day they kick me out just by association. Still, it's better than wasting the day away in my room, worrying about the smallest things. It's the first time that I've actually done anything since school ended a few weeks ago. Sure, I talked on the phone with a few people, but I haven't gone out with anyone. Locking myself up in my room, reading or staring at the wall seemed like a good idea until my thoughts caught up with me and the need to rid myself of Finn's voice was too great to ignore. The need to make up with Rachel was too great to ignore as well.

The Quinn Fabray of two years ago, who loved to entertain her parents' guests and who would always have people lining up to hang out with her seems to have disappeared almost completely. I don't even have the patience to speak to most people, with the exception of Mercedes and occasionally Santana. Ever since our little "Devine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" moment in New York, we've been working on our issues. If she's not a total bitch to me, I'm not a total bitch to her. As for Brittany, it's honestly a waste of time for me to speak on the phone with her because half the time I can't tell if she's talking to me or that huge cat of hers. As sweet as she is, I grew tired of having to hear "You know eating that last slice of pie isn't going to make you feel any better about yourself" and not knowing who she was talking to. Especially when I'd been trying to discretely shove a piece down my throat at the time. Sometimes I wonder if Brittany is insightful or just eccentric.

When Rachel's block comes into view, I glance over at the dashboard to check the time. 10:25. Made it, and with time to spare. I turn down her block cautiously, when I see her sitting outside on her front steps. She's sitting with her hands folded in her lap, and when she notices my car, she smiles and holds up her hand. Why was she outside?

"Hi Quinn," she says, walking over to the car when I pull up beside her. In true Rachel Berry fashion, she's got on a school girl's skirt that's just passing the 'no skirts higher than your finger tips' test and a white blouse. At least she's left the sweaters in the house.

"Why were you waiting outside?" I ask when she slips in beside be. "Is something wrong?"

She buckles herself in and grins. "Not at all. I just wanted to wait in the fresh air." She goes into the front breast pocket of her blouse and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper. "And thank you for coming with me," she looks over at me with gratitude in her eyes. "It means a lot."

"Yeah, no problem." I turn my head away from her and stare at the road. "So, are you gonna tell me where we're off to?" My eye glance over at her once more with my typical raised eyebrow to see that she's already unfolded the paper and is holding it in her lap. She bites down on her lip and holds it open in front of me to read. "Lima Fashion and Fun Festival," I read from the flyer.

"It's a festival that they hold every few years. My father's and I usually go, but they've got something to do today so I figured, we could go." Rachel folds the paper places it back inside her shirt pocket. "There are usually different types of vendors selling everything from food to clothes to art supplies. Occasionally there will be a petting zoo, but I haven't seen once since I was five." She rushes out with such glee that I can't help but giggle at her obvious joy. She must have taken my laughter the wrong way though because her face turns crestfallen and she looks down at her hands in her lap. "I hope you don't mind going with me. It may sound a bit childish, but I can assure you, it's very fun."

"I don't mind Rachel," despite the nagging in my head that's telling me not to, my hand gravitates towards her lap and taps on hers. She looks up, just as shocked as I am that I'm touching her in a non-threatening way, and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. If I keep up with all this physical contact, I'm going to turn into a regular teenager at some point. I remove my hand from hers and grip the steering wheel once again."I could use some new dresses anyway."

I start the car and stare at her out the corner of my eye. "So…where to Captain?"

"Downtown," she answers cheerfully.

* * *

><p>As it turns out, the 'Lima Fashion and Fun Festival' looks like more fun than I thought it would be. Before I could even see it, my ears are greeted with the harmonious sound of a live choir singing Winter Holiday Songs, taking the term 'Christmas in July' to a whole new level. Once we were out the car, Rachel made a beeline for the Chorus, offering them tips of course, before I steered her in another direction. As much as I'd gotten used to Rachel's enthusiasm about singing, I knew that others in this town weren't.<p>

"Is it my fault that they were a little sharp?" She asks, holding her arms in the air dramatically. "I mean, I was just trying to help them out. Their rendition of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' was absolutely beautiful, but their lead was just a bit off."

I laugh out, "Not everyone has perfect pitch like you, Rachel."

She scoffs. "I've realized." As if she knew how uncalled for her comment was, Rachel bends her head low and sighs. "That was rude of me. Sorry." I shrug it off. I know by now that she doesn't really mean to be rude. I mean, things like sending people to crack houses is pretty rude, but I'd rather not bring that up. Who am I to judge anyway? "You'd think I'd learn to censor myself by now, but I guess the only child in me is used to saying whatever she wants without anyone around."

I shrug once more and continue walking further away from the choir. "It's alright. I mean, they didn't hear you and it's only me you're talking to."

"What about you? Are you an only child?"

I turn down a path, trying to mask my discomfort at the question by pretending to be interested in a table filled with jewelry. My older sister and I were never the type of sisters you see on television. Despite the fact that we were both top of the High School 'food chain', that's all we have in common. I haven't seen or heard from her since her wedding.

"Uh, no, I have an older sister," I say nonchalantly while picking up a necklace. I hold up the glass item and look through it, watching Rachel's warped figure through the piece. She looks as though she's waiting for more so I add, "Her name is Fran, but we all call her by her middle name. Melanie."

She seems somewhat satisfied, so I put the item down and continue walking. Rachel follows, but again starts to study my expression. I hate when people stare at me too long.

"Are you and Melanie close?"

I should have known she wouldn't have let it go. "Not really. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband. I don't really know her that well."

Rachel knits her eyebrows together. "You lived with her all you life and you don't really know her? As an only child, I would jump for joy at an older sibling. Or any sibling, for that matter." The glumness in her voice almost makes me take feel like I take Melanie for granted. Almost.

"Melanie's… different." Well, she was when we were living together. Talking about my family life is not something that I'm particularly fond of, especially when it comes to my immediate family. Melanie and I may seem the same on the outside, popular, blond cheerleader (I can't add Prom Queen to that like she can), but we've always been different behind closed doors. Where I would constantly go out after school to hang out with friends, she would lock herself in her room for hours. Once I actually got to the point where I would have friends, post-7th grade, I made it sure that I was surrounded by a sea of people. Even if they only liked me for the image. Melanie wasn't like that though. She had periods where she would be so elated, over achieving at anything she touched, and then she had periods where she would just shut herself away after school.

By the way Rachel's staring at me with her eyebrows raised, I can tell my internal monologue has taken longer than I intended. "We just don't know each other really well," I leave off.

She throws me a half-hearted smile, and heads to a booth filled with portraits.

"Hey, you two! I'll give you one for 10!" There's a bald man in an undershirt and suspenders sitting in the booth, motioning for Rachel and I to move closer. Her eyes absolutely light up at his proposition and I know what's coming next. "I'll even give you something special," he says once we're close enough. "I'll put 'Best Friends Forever' in bold across the top."

Rachel hesitates, looking towards me to see if I'm about to correct the artist who walks to the back of his booth, but I don't. It's not that big of a deal to me, and I throw her a smile. He returns with two seats and orders the two of us to sit. When I take my seat on the right, I can practically _feel_ the excitement pouring out of her. Well, someone's easy to please.

"Alright, anything special you want on it?" He asks while pulling out a sheet of paper and fixing it in his easel.

"Could you give us a skyline of New York as the background?" I'm surprised she didn't ask for us to be put on a stage.

"Sure thing kid," he responds. "Okay, this won't take too long. Pose!"

As soon as the word 'pose' leaves his mouth, Rachel has already straightened out her bangs and folded her hands in her lap. Geez, the girl really did know how to strike a pose for her future headshots. Not knowing what else to do, I try my best at mimicking her actions.

"Come on, Blondie. Grab her hand or put your arm around her or something." You know, it gets really old really quickly when people refer to me as 'Blondie'; just because I have blond hair doesn't mean you can call me that whenever you want. My hair is turning pink for Christ sakes! "At least act like she's your best friend."

Rachel's head drops a bit at his comment. Oh, it's on Photo Man. I give him a look before I throw an arm around Rachel's shoulders and lace the fingers of my free hand with hers. I'll give you 'best friends'. I'll give you the best friggen friends you're gonna see all day.

"That's more like it," he says while his hand flies across the page. "Just hold it like that, and I'll be done in no time."

We sit there for about twenty minutes, my face growing numb from holding a smile that's so large it could be in competition with Rachel's. I try and focus my eyes on the concentration in Photo Man's eyes, rather than how slick my hand has gone against Rachel's. I've never known the girl to sweat profusely, but my hands practically sliding against hers, and I have to grip my fingers around hers tighter to keep the pose. It's all this heat, I assume.

"Alright, done and done." While Photo Man wipes away at his paper with an eraser, Rachel is the first to pull back. With a slight blush on her cheeks, she reaches into her shirt pocket once again and pulls out a tissue.

Dabbing at her hands, she mumbles, "Sorry about that. My palms sweat from time to time."

"Don't worry about it," I say when she offers me a piece of tissue to wipe my own hand off with. I run it over my hand lightly more interested in seeing the finished product. "Can we see it now?"

He lifts the paper out of the easel and works it into a frame. Holding it up for Rachel and I to see, he says, "Here you go, Blondie." Seriously? Again with the 'Blondie'.

My thoughts about giving Photo Man a piece of my mind are pretty much gone when he holds up the portrait. In a word, it's perfect. He pushed us closer together, making our faces touch in the photograph, but that added to the scene. Every minute detail in each of our features, he's managed to capture. I am more than impressed.

"Wow," I hear Rachel breathe out beside me, in as much shock as I am. "That's amazing."

"Yeah." Well, Photo Man may have less than admirable personal skills, but the man could draw. I hear Rachel reaching in her pocket once more to pull out some money, but I stop her.

"No, I got this." I dig into my purse and hand the artist a 10.

He hands me over the photo with a smile. "Come back if you need another portrait Blondie."

"Thanks," I say with annoyance. I extend my hand out for Rachel to take since she's still sitting, and once she grabs it, we make our way back through the crowd. A few spaces ahead, I spot a booth with crates of books inside. Well, I found my destination. I turn to Rachel, who has a small smile on her face, her eyes following the portrait in my hands.

"You didn't have to pay for it, you know," she says as we make out way into the booth. "It was my idea, and I was more than willing to pay."

"Here," I hand her the photograph and begin digging through the first crate I see. "You keep it. I've got enough pictures of myself at my house anyway." I wonder if they have it here.

"Are you sure?" Rachel's voice is coming from behind me, and I turn my head over my shoulder to nod. She holds the picture in front of her face, blocking her view from me, so I return to my search. C…C…C…where's the C's?

"You know what my favorite part of this is?" I hear her ask.

"What?" I respond somewhat absentmindedly.

"He didn't exaggerate my nose." Well, that caught my attention. I stop searching through the crate and turn around to her. She's lowered the portrait to her waist, but is still staring at it. She looks up at me with what looks like appreciation lining her eyes. "Most of the time when I get portraits done, even if it's not a caricature, the artists tend to make my nose even larger than what it really is." She smiles, and I start to feel horrible. All the pictures I drew of Rachel Freshman and Sophomore year definitely exaggerated her nose. "I'm glad he at least made it realistic."

My hand unconsciously extends forward for her to take, and when she does, I pull her closer to me. Louder than my normal voice, I state, "You're nose is beautiful Rachel. And who cares if some no-talent artist decides to ruin it in a picture anyway. It's still beautiful in real life." She doesn't even try to hide the grin that surfaces. I shrug, and turn back towards the crate. With edge in my voice, I say, "At least yours is real."

I'm half expecting her to ask me about my nose surgery, or ask me what caused me to go 'under the knife' at such a young age, but she doesn't. Instead, she begins flipping through the crate next to the one I'm going through. "What are you looking for?" she asks after a few minutes.

"_The Crying of Lot 49._" I say. It's absolutely one of my favorite books, and I'd be shocked if they had it here. I can't find that book anywhere in Lima. This town's so pathetic, I had to read it online.

"The Pynchon novel?"

Woah. I turn to look at her as though I've never seen her before. "Wait, you've heard of it before?" No one in this stupid cow town has ever heard of _Lot 49_, let alone knows who wrote it.

She laughs as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Yes I've heard of it. I'll admit, I've never read it before, but I know of it."

Those were probably the most beautiful words I've heard all summer. I laugh as well and run a hand through my hair. "I've never known anyone in this town to know of Pynchon before, Rachel. It's refreshing to hear that someone knows him."

"I'm guessing you read a lot. You are always carrying a book in Glee Club."

"Yeah," I say with a smile still plastered on my face. "I like to read."

"Well, look who's out of their cave." Her voice breaks through my moment of happiness like a truck. The one moment I find someone that at least shares in my appreciation for something other than fashion or the latest fertilizer, it's broken by sarcasm. I turn to find Santana and Brittany approaching Rachel and I with a bucket of Popcorn in tow. "Fabray," she addresses me. Her smirk disappears when she turns to Rachel. "Hobbit."

"Santana," Brittany and I both groan at the same time. She sends the two of us a wave before nudging Santana on the shoulder.

"I must say, I'm a little hurt by this, Q," she continues as though nothing happens.

"Hurt by what?"

"Hurt by the fact that Britts and I have been trying to get your ass out your house for weeks and you've refused every single invitation. Yet, you're here with Smurfette."

"Santana, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't call me names. Especially when I'm right in front of you." Rachel's put the one hand that isn't holding the portrait on her hips firmly. "And I would also appreciate it if you would stop leaving me those messages on Facebook. After I translated the last one, I've learned more curse words in Spanish than I would have liked to have known."

"And I would appreciate if you would shut the—" Brittany's whispering in her ear, and it's completely stopped Santana in her tracks. Rachel and I exchange looks of confusion when Santana's jaw drops slightly and she straightens her shoulders. "I'm sorry Rachel. Won't happen again."

Well then. Whatever Brittany said to Santana has sure got the girl on edge. "Neat trick, Britt." Santana's nostrils flair at my comment.

"It's a gift," she responds, digging her hand into the bucket in Santana's arms. I look over at Rachel, who's attempting to cover her laughter by holding the portrait over her mouth. "Mmm," Brittany says through chews, "Can I see?"

She gestures to the picture, and Rachel hands it over, still laughing in the process. Her eyes widen when she takes a good look at the photo. "Woah, this is so good. You guys look awesome!"

Santana holds the end of the portrait with the hand that isn't gripping the bucket of Popcorn and wrinkles her nose. "Wow Fabray, can you hold onto her hand a little tighter?" What? Photo Man told me to Pose? Santana hands the portrait back to Rachel, but looks me in the eyes. "Outstanding Heterosexual," she says with a smile.

"Says the girl who owns more than three pairs of overalls." The fact that Rachel stands up for me with such a witty comment surprises all three of us, and even Santana can't help but laugh.

Santana looks down at her outfit and chuckles. "Admit it Berry, you love my overalls," she says with a wink.

"They're totally cute," Brittany pulls on one of the straps of Santana's overalls, and the girl's face turns a dark red, matching the scarlet shirt she's wearing. How Santana ever tried to convince herself that she wasn't head over heels in love with Brittany is beyond me.

"So, what have you two been up to?" I figure I could be a good friend and break the obvious tension Santana's holding inside. By the way Santana's trying her hardest not to grin at Brittany like an idiot, she looks like she's about to burst.

"We went to the petting zoo," Brittany replies, jumping up on the tips of her toes.

"Three times this morning already and it's barely after 12," Santana says slowly. At least the color has faded from her face. Brittany hits her on the arm and sure enough, she blushes once more. So much for that.

"Wait, the petting zoo is back?" Rachel moves closer to Brittany, her eyes filled with excitement.

"Yeah, come on, I'll show you." Britt takes the photo from Rachel's hand and shoves it in my arms. "Hold this, Q." She grabs Rachel's hand and heads through the crowd towards the zoo. Rachel turns around, waving a hand for me to follow before she's lost in the crowd completely.

Santana and I look at each other, shrug, and follow them. We're munching on the popcorn in her arms, brushing past hordes of people when she speaks up,

"So what's going on with you? I thought we were trying to be better friends or something."

I should have known she wouldn't let it go. "We are, aren't we? I've spoken to you on the phone at least three times last week."

"I wasn't kidding about what I said earlier, Quinn." I wasn't expecting that. I turn to see her looking at me with a serious expression. "I've been trying to hang with you again like we used to and you're just ignoring it."

This is what I was trying to avoid. Nothing personal against Santana or Brittany, it's just, I've had a lot on my mind. "I'm sorry San. I just haven't really been in the mood to hang out."

"But you're in the mood to hang out with Rachel," she spits back sharply.

"It's not even like that." I grab another handful of popcorn, trying to buy myself some time to come up with an acceptable answer on Santana's terms. I'd rather not tell her that I couldn't shake what Finn said to me and the only reason I felt I could fix it was by talking to Rachel. That's something I'd prefer to stay between Rachel and I. "I just felt bad for how horrible I've treated her and I'm trying to make it right, okay."

Santana rolls her eyes and sucks in a breath. "You don't have to explain to me why you're hanging out with Berry, Q. I'm just thinking out loud here."

I pause for a moment, taking her words in. After a while, I add, "Can stop calling her names, Santana? It's not cool."

She lets out a hollow laugh. "Believe me, after what Britt said to me back there, I will."

At the mention of the girl's name, her grip tightens on the popcorn bucket and she can barely hold back a smile. "How are things going between you and her?"

Santana cast her eyes briefly down to the ground before staring straight ahead. The smile is gone from her lips. "It's going," she says with a slight dip in the tone of her voice. "We're just friends, you know. Taking it slowly, I guess."

"Is that what you want?" I ask, genuinely concerned.

Her face lifts as Brittany and Rachel come into view, their bodies bending over what looks like a goat pen. "I'd rather have her as a friend than not have her at all."

"San, look!" Brittany calls out over her shoulder and reaches an arm behind, grabbing Santana and pulling her forward when we're close enough. "I should have brought Charity and Lord Tubbington to see the goats."

"Brittany, I don't think you can bring your cats to a fair." I say with a laugh. Santana throws me a look.

"Well, not Lord Tubbington anyway. He's got a fur condition and he can't be in direct sunlight without his umbrella," she shrugs, averting her attention back to the goats. Why do I even bother?

I look at Rachel, who's kneeling down by the pen, petting one of the larger goats. She looks up at me, filled with joy, and extends her hand. I take it, bringing her to a standing position, and we both lean over the side of the pen. "The owner said this one's called Chewy."

The darn thing looks like it should be called 'Tubby' because at the rate it's consuming the food in the bucket next to him, I can't tell whose worse, the goat or Lord Tubbington. "Chewy looks like he could go on _Atkins_ like Lord Tubbington."

Rachel playfully hits me on the shoulder. "Stop it Quinn. His chubbiness is absolutely adorable." She reaches a hand down and scratches the goat on the head.

"I'm more of a rabbit person," I say, moving closer to the pen to get a look at Chewy. "I don't know how you find that thing adorable, Rachel." She rolls her eyes and continues petting the animal.

As much fun as this is for Rachel, I'm more interested in finding that book. Despite Santana's random sarcastic outburst, it's nice to see someone else interested in Pynchon. I rotate slightly, keeping the front of my body towards the animals, but looking over my shoulders in the direction we came from. Hmm…perhaps I can slip away for a moment without anyone noticing. I'm sure I could just ask the vendor if they have it—

"Chewy, no!" Rachel's arms around my shoulders permeate my thoughts as she tries to pull me backwards. To my left, Brittany is swatting something away at my ankles furiously while Rachel continues to grip me hard. I look down and that's when I see it.

The damn goat is chewing on my dress.

"Get off me, Tubby!" I yell, yanking at the end of my dress, trying to get it out of its mouth. Its dull teeth are dragging across the fabric and when I give one final, hard tug, it slides off the end of my dress.

Great. A large, goat-mouth sized section of my dress is torn off. I could hear Santana's muffled laughter from a few feet away.

"That sucks," Brittany chimes in, grabbing a section of my dress that's still intact. Rachel's pulled me back far enough so that she's standing between myself and the goat pen, inspecting the damage. Over her shoulder, I can see the goat chewing on the dotted pattern that was my dress.

"Well, that's about as much fun that I've had for one day," I say rather loudly in stark contrast to my body language as I sink my shoulders. I can already feel my mood turning south. As if someone's winding me down with a dial, not only do my shoulders slump, but my whole upper body starts to follow suit. Slowly, the ground looks closer to me than it did a few minutes ago. So much for the "Fun Festival".

"You can borrow some clothes of mine," Through the fog that begins to cloud my judgment, and thoughts, I feel Rachel's fingertips on my arm. "My house isn't that far, as you may remember on the drive over, so you can change and come back later," she pauses. "If you want, of course."

My hand rises on instinct and pushes her hand away. "I'm sorry Rachel, but I really do think that I'm done with the fair." My voice once again comes out in my natural whisper and I turn away from her. As if on cue, Finn's voice reverberates in my head, and I raise a hand to my head to block it out. Feeling crappy about my lack of understanding for another person's feelings I add to Rachel, "You can stay with Britt and San if you want." I don't even care enough to look at Santana's expression at my statement, but I'd rather not let my sour mood dampen Rachel's.

"Oh, come on," Her voice sounds muffled, and her hands are on my shoulders, swinging me around to face her. "There's no reason to give up on the entire day just because of a little mishap." She releases my arms, but lifts my chin so I can look her in the eyes. "I'll drive you to my house, you'll change and we'll see go from there. Alright?"

I breathe out, knowing that Rachel Berry look that says "I Get What I Want" and shrug without much effort. With a satisfied grin, she pats me on the shoulder takes the portrait from my hands.

"Well damn, Q." Santana moves behind Rachel so that she's in my line of view. "I've never seen you submit to anyone _that_ easily before." She walks forward a bit so that she's in line with Rachel, and slaps her on the shoulder. "Nice trick, Berry," she mocks.

"Cool it, Lopez." I say without hesitation

Rachel simply smiles and nods at Santana. "See you guys later."

And we walk in unison towards my car and onto Rachel Berry's house. Yep. This is _definitely_ going to be a long summer.

* * *

><p>The title of this chapter is inspired by Animals As Leaders' "On Impulse".<p> 


	3. Beyond the Void

**Author's Note:** I've decided to upload this chapter earlier than usual because it leaves off right where the previous one left off. It is slightly shorter than usual because although it is a continuation of the last chapter, I separated it into two segments. Having them as one would have resulted in an _über_ long chapter. Anyway, thank you all for the positive reception this story has received.

* * *

><p>By the time we're back in my car and pulling out onto the street, my mind is already humming. The events of this afternoon and the past few weeks are ricocheting from one end of my head to the other, only allowing me to concentrate on one event for only a few minutes. I'm barely able to get out a laugh at the fact that Rachel is constantly adjusting the seat so she can see over the steering wheel.<p>

"Don't laugh at me Quinn, you're not _that_ much taller than me," she says, attempting to be serious, but I can hear her own giggle underneath. Even still, she reaches behind her one last time to move herself closer to the wheel.

My eyes drift towards the street, watching the houses drift past me in a blur of bright color that seems to turn greyer after each passing second. This is just perfect, the first time I hang out with anyone this summer, it turns into me having a mood and wanting to leave. Not to mention that a goat ruined one of my favorite outfits. Looking down at the tattered ends of my dress only makes me sink down into my seat. Why on today of all days, with Rachel of all people, do I have to stumble into a funk?

Well, to be honest, if I were with anyone else they would have just left me alone until this 'thing' passed. But not Rachel. Perhaps it's her constant need to be friends with everyone, or some other reward she'll get in the long run that's making her stick with me until it goes away. Whatever it is, I'm suddenly more grateful that she didn't leave me alone with my musings and actually stayed with me. As much as I'm used to it, it does get lonely in my head alone all the time.

Whenever I usually feel this way, I fix myself with a good book, or go for a walk until my eyes hurt too much to read another word or my legs are too tired to take another step. If, and most likely _when_ those two methods of coping fail, I just stay in my room, trying stop my mind from moving so rapidly. Sublimation is the only thing that keeps the thoughts quiet enough function.

The car comes to a stop, and I look up to see that we're in the Berry's driveway. Rachel passes me the keys over the center console, and we exit the car in unison. It's only when we start towards the door that it hits me. We're going in her house…where her father's might be home.

"Rachel," my voice a few paces behind her causes her to stop. "Not to be rude or anything, but are your parents home?" She gives me a questioning glare, but continues on towards her door.

"No, they're both at work. They won't be home until later." She puts the key in the door, but doesn't turn it. "Why do you want to know if my dad's are home?"

This is what I was afraid of. I could just tell her something that would end the conversation without further questioning. Something like, "I'm just curious" or "Just asking without any real purpose", but something in my head is telling me not to lie to her. Maybe it's because Rachel's been nothing short of kind to me today. "I just don't know how your parents would react to me after…well after everything I've done to you." My voice dies out at the end, and don't think I've been this embarrassed since McKinley got introduced to Lucy Q. I swallow hard, pushing all thoughts of brown hair and braces to the back of my skull.

Rachel seems to understand, and she slowly turns the key in the lock and opens the door. She takes my hand, and pulls me inside her house.

It looks completely different from how it did during 'The Rachel Berry House Party Train Wreck Extravaganza', granted that I'm sober. The first thing you notice when you walk in is a staircase, then to the right the kitchen and to the left, the living room. It's not nearly as big as my house, I could tell that from the outside, but somehow that comforts me. I won't get lost in it as easily.

"My room's upstairs." Rachel releases my hand from hers, setting the portrait down near the door, and motions for me to follow her up. The wall up the stairs is lined with photographs of Rachel from a young age at various ballet recitals and concerts. To my surprise, there are also pictures of two other young men, obviously from decades long past, judging by the George Michael hair (circa 1987) on one and the Jeri Curl on the other. Rachel's dads must have been...happenin' in their time. Or whatever they called it back then.

Being in her house for the two minutes that I have been so far actually lifted my mood. The thoughts that are aching to roam free haven't completely stopped bouncing around in my head, but at least I'm able to concentrate on something other than my own issues.

We reach the second floor, and Rachel leads me to the third door on the right. It's no surprise whose room lies behind the door with the Gold Star hanging on front. She opens the door, and I'm immediately engulfed in pink. No wonder Rachel thought whatever Puck gave her during her party tasted "like pink"; the girl's got so much of it lining her walls, I'm amazed she hasn't had a seizure from the color overload.

"There are dresses and skirts in the closet," she says crossing my path towards the closet. "And in the drawers, there are some shirts and pants." She points, and I nod, silently taking in the rest of her room. "We aren't exactly the same size, but I'm sure that you'll be able to find something suitable."

I've already moved to the middle of the floor, running my hand across her bed frame. Rachel's made her way back to the door, standing in the archway, biting her lip. "Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll be downstairs." With that, she closes the door, leaving me alone in her bedroom with the task of finding an outfit.

"God help me," I say aloud when I open the closet and find an inordinate amount of sweaters with animal prints on them. I take out the longest skirt I can find, and find move to the dresser and pull out a simple black button-up. Once I strip myself of my own tattered garment, and slip on Rachel's clothes, I've decided already that I'm not going anywhere public dressed like this. Looking at myself in the vanity, I see how much of a cliché her clothes are on me. Her skirts, which are already short on her, go much higher than the middle of my thighs and the top two buttons on the blouse barely cover up my bust. In short: I look like a Slutty Catholic School Girl. My short, tousled blond hair and the cross around my neck doesn't help one bit either. For the briefest of moments, I contemplate the pastel-blue pant suit, but the thought leaves my head just as quickly as it came.

With a dramatic exhale, I begin looking around Rachel's room. Aside from the abundance of pink, it looks very inviting. I'd be lying to myself if I were to say that I wouldn't jump in her bed in a heartbeat because those pillows look, in a word, heavenly. I trail my finger along the stuffed lamb plushie on her bed. Directly across from her bed is a table with a record player and neatly organized Vinyl, Cassettes and CD's. And here I thought I was orderly. Not only is the vinyl organized by title, but also by genera and year. The girl's got an obsession.

Turning from the records, I run through her also pristinely organized case of CD's. Well, this is interesting. Most of them aren't Musical Soundtracks. In fact, out of all the CD's, I can only count about 5 soundtracks to musicals. The rest are from artists I've never heard from.

"Quinn, are you done in there?" Rachel's voice is softened by the door, and she opens it gingerly when I don't respond. She comes in carrying a tray of mixed fruit, instantaneously making my mouth water. "Oh dear," she nearly drops the tray, looking me up and down with a raised eyebrow.

I let out a small laugh, clicking my heels together. "Yeah…"

Rachel leaves the tray on her bed, my eyes following the delicious looking food, before walking over to her drawer. "I'm pretty sure there are some clean sweats in here."

"I'm already in this," I reply, still eyeing the tray on her bed. The only thing I'd had all day was the few handfuls of popcorn from Santana earlier, and my stomach is now begging for food.

"If you insist." She walks over to me at the desk and straightens out a few CD's that I've moved while rummaging through her collection. Hearing the rustling brings me out of the trance that the food tray has held on me and I focus back on her.

"I'm surprised this whole thing isn't filled with Musicals."

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. "Why does everyone always assume that I only listen to Show tunes?"

I shrug. "Who's _Long Distance Calling_?" That's one of the more frequent names that pops up in her CD collection.

Rachel pulls out one of their albums and hands it to me. "They're an instrumental band. Most of my CD's are instrumentals actually." I raise an impressed eyebrow. "It clears my mind without the clutter of modern day pop lyrics that are most of the time really vapid. Plus, it helps me with my song writing. Each time I listen to an instrumental song, I make up my own lyrics." She opens a drawer and pulls out an ipod docking station. "Because I make up my own words, I'm able to create a meaning of whatever I chose."

I don't respond, but I let the words hang in the air for a bit, watching her as she retrieves her ipod from the drawer and attaches it to the docking station. I knew she took her craft seriously before, but now I can see where the inspiration for our songs for Regional's and Sectionals came from. Once she's done fiddling with her ipod, she walks over to her bed, taking a piece of fruit between her teeth, and pats down on a pillow for me to follow.

As if on autopilot, I sit down beside her and begin eating the fruits that she's laid out. "Mmm," I moan out. "I've been living off nothing but Hot Pockets for the past few weeks. This is delicious." Rachel arches an eyebrow, and I explain, "My mother's been really busy and it's up to me to cook for myself." I take a handful of grapes, and between chews I manage, "This may sound sad, but I've been too lazy to cook a proper meal."

She lets out a small laugh. "I highly doubt that a fruit plate is a 'proper meal' Quinn, but if you need, I'd be more than happy to offer my culinary services." I continue to chew, mulling over the fact that her meals would most likely consist of Vegan dishes, which would definitely be a no-no for me. As if she could hear my thoughts, she continues, "I may be a Vegan, and as much I would like to sway you to our 'dark side'", she says playfully, "I wouldn't mind throwing in a few strips of bacon in there. It's against my religion, but I know how much you love pork."

In that moment, I think I could marry Rachel Berry. A grape actually falls out my mouth as I open it slightly to stare at the girl. As it meant nothing to her (and I don't know how, it's _bacon_ we're talking about here), she reaches over me to her bedside table and picks up a small remote. Silently, she pushes 'play', and music softly begins playing from the various speakers that surround her bedroom. Rachel lowers herself until she's lying flat on the bed, and I mimic her movements, taking a few strawberries from the plate with me. Gradually, the music starts speeding up, getting much heavier as it continues on with distorted guitars and a hard-hitting base line. I turn to look at her, and watch in amazement as her features turn to one of complete bliss; her mouth moving lightly, and I can tell she's making up her own lyrics. As the tempo speeds up again, her brow furrows and the muscles in her face tighten as the words seem to fly out her mouth, without sound to my dismay. I want to know so desperately what story she's telling with the music.

Silently, I settle back onto my own corner of her bed and after grabbing the stuffed lamb close to my chest with the album Rachel gave to me, I close my own eyes and listen. Listen to the music coming from the speakers, listen to my own heartbeat against the plushie, and listen to Rachel's breathing coming beside me. It's soothing, not having to speak all the time. My mother tries to speak with me more than is necessary, and even though it's been over a year, I still haven't fully forgiven her for keeping silent to my father. Now that she actually wants to speak, I have nothing to say to her. Mercedes and I had a rough start to our friendship too, only because I only treated her slightly better than I did Rachel. Patching my relationship up with Santana was somewhat awkward in the beginning as well with both of us at a loss for words of what to say with each other. But here and now, without words to get in the way, this is perhaps the best new start to a relationship that I've had so far.

"We can go back to the festival whenever you're ready."

I get an image in my head of what I look like and laugh. "Not looking like a Catholic School Girl Reject I'm not."

She's already shifting from her position beside me and when I open my eyes, I see her crawling to the edge of the bed. "I know that there are some sweats in the top drawer for sure."

Sitting up, I grab her ankle for her to stop. "Rachel," she looks behind her with a questioning glare, but she turns around and folds her legs. "I don't mind really. I like this." My eyes fall down to the comforter, and Rachel returns to her position sitting next to me. Wringing my hands a bit, I take a deep breath and continue. "This is my first time outside of the four walls of my bedroom since summer began. I haven't really been…up to hanging out with anyone." By this point, I'm looking anywhere but in her eyes. "This feels good though. Just sitting here with you and just, just _being_ feels good."

When I finally do meet her eyes, there's a gleam in them that I can't quite figure out what it means. She has this coy grin tugging at her lips, but she doesn't say anything. She simply slides back down on the mattress, and folds her hands under her head. I lie back down beside her and after a while, she says,

"I guess there's more Beyond the Void."

"What?"

With her eyes still closed, she taps the album I'm holding close to my chest with her nail. I bring it up to my face and notice that one of the tracks is titled "Beyond the Void."

"That was the first song I played. Yesterday you told me that Finn thought of you, and I quote, as 'walking being void of emotion'. Although I completely disagree with him, if you were a 'walking void', you wouldn't be able to lie here and _feel_. So I guess there's more beyond the void than he knows."

For the second time in an hour, as I allow myself to be lost in the music, and once more I think I could marry Rachel Berry.

* * *

><p>"Oh my god, what are you wearing?"<p>

"Hello to you too Mercedes." Standing on her front doorstep, I pull her into a tight hug. It's been too long since I've done this.

After lying on Rachel's bed for hours, talking occasionally, but mostly just _being_, I decided to make an exit before either of her parents came home. I originally planned on going back to my own home, but since I knew my mother was long gone and being alone in my home just didn't feel right. So, I made a detour to see a friend. Unfortunately, in the scramble to get out of Rachel's home so quickly, I forgot to give her back her clothes.

"Don't tell me Rachel forced you to wear her clothes. This is almost as bad as when you all lost your minds and started dressing like her earlier this year," she ushers me inside, leading me down a hallway I know all too well into and into her room.

"To make a long story short, my clothes got ruined and hers were available." I plop down on her bed while she goes to her closet.

"And the only thing you could find in Rachel Berry's closet was something that makes you look like you belong on the cover of an X-rated movie?" she scoffs. "I guess the Sexy School Girl look is never out, huh?"

I laugh much harder then I should. "You should ask Rachel. These are her clothes."

Mercedes begins holding up different shirts against her, while looking in her full length mirror. "Are you telling me that you think Rachel is a Sexy School Girl?"

A large amount of air releases from my lips, and I can see the corners of her mouth curve upward into a sly grin. She moves towards the edge of the bed where there is a pair of jeans laid out neatly. Once she slips them on, I realize that my detour over here might be intrusive, especially since I note that there are no other voices from inside the house.

"Do you have a date?"

When she finishes smoothing out the shirt she just put on, she responds with a wide smile. "Sam's coming over in a half hour."

Ouch. "Sorry, I didn't know." I stand to leave, but she puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down on the bed.

"Wait a minute, it's the first time I've seen you in forever. Sam won't be here for a while, and if he gets here, he can wait." She sits beside me, holding out her fist for me to dap. "Chicks before dicks, remember."

"You're starting to sound like Puckerman," I say with a laugh.

"Well, he does hang out with Sam a lot, so it comes with the territory. Anyway, how've you been?" she asks, scooting closer to me on the bed.

I reply with a long, "Eeh," to which she nods in understanding. Living with someone while they're pregnant can clue you into their moods pretty well.

Mercedes quickly changes the subject. "So, how was your day with Rachel?"

The corners of my mouth twitch upward for the briefest of seconds. "It went better than I anticipated." She gets up, satisfied with my response, but I add "Much better."

"That's good. Rachel's cool once you get to know her. She talks a mile a minute, but she can be a really good friend."

I'm starting to see that. After spending one day with Rachel, I'm feeling ten times better than I would have if I'd just remained alone. It's sad that after all this time I've spent trying to destroy her High School career for no reason, she's the one person to get me out of my funk.

Well, that's not entirely true. There is a reason. My less than obvious jealousy for Rachel became increasingly apparent after my stint with Finn this year. No matter what I did to get the boy to fall for me again, he still found his way back to her. Still, he chose her over me. In all honesty, Finn was never what I wanted; it was the status that he could give me. Up until Prom, I thought my life was destined in this small town with these small minded people, so I did everything I could to make it as meaningful as possible. With Finn after Rachel, what was I supposed to have? She was always destined for greater things, while I was destined to marry some moderately wealthy man from Lima, settle down, and raise a bunch of kids. It's what the Fabray's do.

Oh no. That sinking feeling is gnawing at the back of my head again. Standing, I move towards the door. "Hey, um, I'm gonna get going." I really don't want anyone else to see me in this mood today. It's bad enough Mercedes had to deal with this last year; I'd rather not subject her to it again.

She must sense what's going on, because she moves over to me and returns the crushing hug I gave to her earlier. "Need me to walk you out?"

"No, I know my way. Have fun with Sam," I say as I'm walking out her bedroom door. "But not _too_ much fun."

I don't even need to turn around to know that she's throwing me a devilish grin. I move quickly out her house and into my SUV. I just sit there for a while, mulling over my conversation with Rachel earlier. When Sam's car pulls up behind mine, I send him a wave through the rear-view mirror that he returns with a lopsided smile. He doesn't even get a chance to knock on the door before he's pulled inside Mercedes' arms. At least someone's having fun.

Something gets the better of me, and I pull out my phone, sending a quick message to Rachel:

'**Hey, I still have your clothes. I can return them to you tomorrow if you're free'**

I make sure to type out each word. Knowing Rachel, I'll get a tongue lashing if I don't. My phone lights up almost instantly:

'**That would be fine Quinn.'**

I chew on my bottom lip nervously before I send the next one:

'**Thank you for today Rachel. I had a really great time.'**

The next message comes under thirty seconds:

'**It was my pleasure. I hope you have a good night.'**

With a slight smirk, I turn the car on and make my way home.

* * *

><p>The title of this chapter is inspired by, you guessed it, "Beyond the Void" by Long Distance Calling.<p> 


	4. Inhale

The next morning, I check my mother's room to make sure that she's in her bed before I head out to Rachel's house. Thankfully, she's tucked under the covers, snoring softly every few seconds. At least there's no chance of her scaring the daylights out of me again. I creep slowly into her room and leave a note on her comforter explain who I'll be out with today, just for her benefit.

With Rachel's outfit tucked safely under my arm, I make my way out to my car and drive towards her house. In contrast to all my summer mornings so far, today feels like it's going to be a good day. I suppose I'm still in pretty high spirits from yesterday, which ended up being a really good day, despite my personal slip after the dress incident. Truthfully, I can't remember a morning in the last few weeks that I've felt this good. I finally have something to do other than watch re-runs of _Design on a Dime_ or _Rizzoli and Isles_ while in my pajamas all day long. I don't dare turn on _16 & Pregnant_.

I pull into the Berry's driveway and notice that Rachel isn't sitting outside today. I guess she got enough 'fresh air' today. Slamming my car door shut, I pull out my phone and find her number. I walk over to the door, wiping my feet on the carpet outside of it a bit while straightening out her clothes in my arms.

"Hey," I start when I hear the phone pick up," I'm out…"

She opens the door with a smile before I even get a chance to finish.

"…side. That was fast," I note, running a hand through my hair.

She nods with the corner of her lips turning upward slightly. "I heard your car, so I figured I'd save you the trouble of knocking. I didn't get here exactly on time, but close enough."

"Better luck next time," I jab while Rachel pouts and nudges my shoe with her bare foot. Looking over at her outfit, which is a simple t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I remember what I was here for in the first place. I hold her clothes out for her to take. "Well, here you go. Thanks again."

Rachel holds my gaze while she takes the clothes from my hand, never looking down once towards out hands which briefly touch in the exchange. That coy smile from yesterday returns and she tugs at her pants.

"You know, Quinn, its funny. I found these in the top drawer after you left yesterday." I cast my eyes down at her pants that she's tugging before bringing them back up to meet hers. She shrugs faintly, almost so faintly that I almost missed it, and tosses her hair. "I guess you didn't look hard enough."

I don't know why I stopped breathing, but when my lungs start to constrict, I try to suck in a breath as quietly as possible. Licking my lips lightly, I whisper, "Guess not."

She smiles again, nods slowly, and raises both of eyebrows just as slow. "It's almost as if you intentionally looked over them. Well, not intentionally, of course." Her eyes find mine once more. "I know you wouldn't do that on purpose. It's just….curious."

I don't like what she's insinuating.

The breeze picks up, and my arms begin to tickle from the wind. The tickle spreads up to my neck where my hair moves lightly as well. My focus is drawn on every sensation I'm feeling, trying my hardest not to concentrate on the sensation her words have made me feel. Suddenly, watching _Rizzoli & Isles_ from the comfort of my couch sounds so much better than it did an hour ago. "Thank you," she says after a while.

"Yeah, no problem," I mumble. "Well, I guess I should…" My mouth starts to form the word 'go', but the smell hits my nose before my mind can even catch on. "You didn't…" I say, leaving my mouth open slightly.

Rachel bites her lip mischievously. "I did."

Sweet Jesus in heaven, the smell of bacon coming from inside her house makes me forget everything I was feeling.

"Come inside." She waves me in, and I follow behind her without hesitation. She places her neatly folded clothes on a bench in the hallway before heading into the kitchen. She points to a stool at an island in the middle of the floor and I sit patiently, my mouth salivating at the mere smell of the bacon sizzling in the pan.

"You did this for me?" I ask as she takes some out the pan and puts it on a plate. With her back towards me, she nods and that's when I notice that there is not only bacon, but also eggs and toast on the counter as well.

"After you told me that you've been living off Hot Pockets, I couldn't allow you to continue that routine. It was not a sufficient diet. I'll admit, when I asked my Dad to pick up bacon from the Supermarket on his way home, he was a little concerned." She puts the other food on the plate and goes over to the cabinet, pulling out two glasses. "But I told him it wasn't for me, so he understood."

"Did you tell him who it was for?" I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible.

She turns to the island and pushes the plate across the table towards me. She motions to the silverware that she already set up at the end of the table and I take it. "Don't worry Quinn. It's not Dad you have to worry about."

I pretend not to notice the dip in her voice.

"Dig in," she says while fixing two glasses of Orange Juice. I don't even waste my time with the utensils, and I know I probably look like I'm starving, but I grab a piece bacon with my bare hands and shove it in my mouth.

The moan that escapes me would almost be embarrassing if I actually cared. "This. Is. Amazing," is all that can get out as I grab another piece of bacon. "It should be illegal for you be a Vegan and deny the world of your bacon-makin' powers."

She laughs at my exaggeration as she slides into the seat across from mine, sipping orange juice. "You do realize that there's other food on the plate, right?"

With my left hand that isn't holding bacon, I pick up the fork and put some eggs in my mouth. Even her eggs are heavenly.

"Is it okay if I call you Quinn Fa_bacon_?" I look up at her and she's doing a terrible job of trying to stifle her laughter.

After sipping some juice, I respond, "You keep cooking like this, and you can call me anything you want."

She lifts her eyebrows and grins. "Good to know," her voice comes out low, but slick.

For the first time since I sat down, I relinquish my hold on the fork and bacon and wipe my mouth with a napkin she hands me. "Thanks a lot Rachel. You really didn't have to do this, but I appreciate it."

She takes a long sip before answering. "You also didn't have to come to my house at 6:30 in the morning to 'go for a walk'. Nor did you have to go to the festival with me yesterday." She reaches out for my hand. "_I_ really appreciate it."

When she removes her hand, we share a small smile while I finish my meal. When my stomach grumbles in pleasure, Rachel simply gives me a nod and continues drinking her juice. I knew this day was going to turn out well.

"I guess I shouldn't ruin the moment by telling you that you're eating egg substitute and soy bacon, huh?"

"Wait, what?"

* * *

><p>Even though the girl tried to trick me with her fake-bacon, I walk into her living room with a full stomach and drop down on her couch harder than I would have liked. After cleaning up in the kitchen, she ambles in behind me and sits down on the other side of the couch.<p>

"Would you like to watch a movie or something?" she asks, grabbing the remote.

I yawn and stretch my arms above my head. "Your house, your choice."

She shrugs and switches on the TV. She turns to me, her eyes gravitating towards my midsection where my hand has fallen after yawning, before looking back at the screen. Instinctively, my hands grab the throw pillow behind my back and nonchalantly place it over my stomach. After quitting the Cheerios, I've pretty much given up on exercise, enjoying the freedom of being able to eat without Sue Sylvester's Master Cleanse. Living off Hot Pockets has done nothing but added to me losing my once perfect abs. I remember the sensation of Rachel's hugging me and how I could feel her muscles underneath her hoodie and it only adds to my embarrassment. I squeeze the pillow just a bit tighter when an image of those brown pigtails and thick glasses surface.

Rachel finally settles on a show, and I won't say that I'm not concerned when the episode is about a serial killer fixated on the Fibonacci Sequence, we watch in silence. When the killer, who bears a striking resemblance to George from _Seinfeld_, loses control because of one of the female investigators, I grab the remote and turn the channel.

"Okay, that's enough of that," I stop when I come to something bright and colorful. "What the heck was that anyway?" I ask, without any real annoyance in my voice.

"_Criminal Minds. _It's about a Behavioral Analysis Unit that tracks Serial Killers by studying their methodology." I stare at her slack jawed for a few seconds. Oh God, she really is crazy. "Judging by your expression, I realize watching that in front of other people was probably highly inappropriate." She blows out through her lips, a few strands of hair moving in the process.

"I knew you were psycho," I chuckle, which earns a laugh from Rachel.

Her eyes skirt across the room and I can hear her take in a breath before she looks at me. "Can I ask you a question, Quinn?"

"You just did." My playfulness doesn't quite get to her, because she doesn't laugh. Her face remains stoic. "Yeah, sure," I say seriously.

"Why have you closed yourself off from people in the last few weeks?"

Oh.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," she says quietly. "I'll understand if it's too personal. I shouldn't be prying in your business anyway. I only asked because Santana brought up how you haven't gone out with her in a while and you mentioned it yesterday."

Rachel sits patiently, waiting for me to respond. I close my eyes and go inside myself, searching for an answer. An answer that seems acceptable, anyway. My face begins to go through a series of changes as I comb through my mind, searching for a simple answer to her relatively complex question. It shouldn't be this hard. After everything I've gone through, giving her an answer should not be this hard, yet I can feel myself shutting down right on the spot. Her bare knee brushes against mine, and I open my eyes to find her much closer to me on the couch then when we began.

She's close- too close. She's trying to get too close. I can't handle close. When Finn got this close, I pushed him away for Puck. When Puck got this close, I pushed him away for Finn. When Sam got too close, once again, I pushed him away for Finn. Now that Rachel's getting too close, I have no one to push her away for. When her hand grazes my knee, I open my mouth, giving in,

"Would you believe me if I say I don't really know?" She's studying my face again. I want to escape so badly, but her hand on my knee seems to have such a hold on me that I continue. "I think I have an idea, but I can't really put it into words. It's like there was something keeping me back every time I tried to step outside my room. I've just been really down ever since school ended."

"I've had time to reevaluate everything that I've done this year, and it's been weighing down on me. I'd wake up thinking about how horrible I've treated everyone close to me and I just couldn't bring myself to leave my room." When her hand runs along my back, it slips out. "I guess I've been ashamed of what I've done. I guess I've been ashamed of who I've become."

It happens so quickly this time that I don't even feel the stinging behind my nose or the tickle in my throat. The tears are falling one at a time and I don't even bother wiping them up. Way to ruin the day, Fabray. The girl cooks you breakfast and what do you do? Steal her clothes and cry on her couch like some kind of mental patient.

It's too much; I have to leave. I'm no longer in control of my limbs when they start to do what comes naturally. My head shakes and my arms are ready push off the couch so I can head towards the door.

Her hands are on the side of my face before I even get off the couch. "Quinn, no," her fingers are slipping due to my tears, and that only makes me want to leave more. I shake my head once more, trying to rid myself of her nimble fingers. "Quinn, listen to me: You have _nothing_ to be ashamed about. You're human- we all make mistakes."

"I've made some pretty big mistakes, Rachel. Mistakes that affected people more than I knew at the time."

"And look at how far you've come. Look at you now. Do you think the Quinn Fabray of last year would have even attempted to be my friend? And not for her own benefit?" I shrug my shoulders, trying my hardest to stay in the conversation and not completely crawl back into myself. She moves her arms until they are around my neck, and all can see is her brown hair clouding my vision. I can feel her breath ghost across my ear when she whispers, "You're one of the strongest people I've ever met. Don't ever forget that."

She doesn't let go of me until my breathing evens out and the tears stop flowing. Once it does, she plants a kiss on my cheek, wiping up some of the tears with her lips. Rachel pulls back, but she maintains her close proximity to me on the couch. I cough and run my hand along my running nose, not even caring how horrible I might look right now.

"Why do I always end up in tears around you?" A low chuckle releases from both of our lips. She lifts up her shirt at the hem, revealing some of her stomach as she dabs at my cheeks.

"I like to think of it as you can't control yourself around me," she says with a slight grin.

"Whatever," my hand pushes her shoulder playfully while she removes any remaining traces of my tears away with her shirt. I close my eyes for a few seconds in an attempt to regain my composure. When I reopen my eyes, I wrap an arm around Rachel to grab the remote and turn the channel back to the program she originally put it on. The girl listened to me cry for the past 10 minutes and wiped up my tears with her own clothes; the least I can do is let her watch her show.

She looked at me skeptically, but sinks back in the seat next to me with a smile on her lips.

"Why don't you clue me in on what this is about?"

Rachel makes a movement with her hands, and brings me closer to her until my head is resting against her chest and my arms are in her lap. As badly as my mind is screaming to move from this position, something holds me here. Perhaps it's the way Rachel's fingers are loosely threading through my hair, or the way my own fingers have gotten a mind of their own and are drawing lazy patterns on her knees. Either way, I'm here.

"It's about this 'Professor' who's obsessed with perfection. The sequence of numbers he tries to replicate with everything he does is the ultimate idea of beauty in his mind." Her voice reverberates through her chest and into my ears as she speaks. "He has to realize that not everything is perfect. Everything has its flaws; it's human nature."

I close my eyes and lace my fingers with Rachel's unoccupied hand, wondering if this is some sort of message from God.

* * *

><p>Its weird how in the space of a few days, things can take a drastic turn for the better. The nagging thoughts in the back of my head haven't made their presence known for a while now, and I've been able to concentrate much better than I have been. Occasionally I'll get a slither of some thought waiting to come out, but I've been able to quickly push it to the back of my head before it turns into something more. And I have Rachel to thank for it.<p>

That's what I think as she walks out of the Changing Room wearing a dark grey pant suit. She doesn't know when to quit.

"Rachel, no more pant suits. It's summer." We've been at the mall for almost an hour, and when I finally convinced her to stop trying on reindeer sweaters, she migrated right over to the Suit Department and picked out the most horrific one she could find.

"But it's warm!" she whines, thumbing the collar on her blazer. "And it's better to buy clothes out of season, this way you get them at a discount! It's a great deal!"

"If you think buying that thing is a deal, you're horribly mistaken." I nudge her backwards towards the cubicle. "As your friend, I cannot allow you to buy that."

She crosses her arms over her chest defiantly. "You're one to talk about my fashion choices. You seem to think that polka-dotted sundresses are 'all the rage'." Oh no she did not.

I raise a finger and tap her nose lightly while she scrunches her face in mock-pain. "If you don't get back in there and change out of that suit, I will to listen to your copy of the _Aida_ soundtrack over and over until I wear it down."

"You wouldn't dare," she trails off.

I arch an eyebrow. "I could listen to _Written in the Stars_ all night long."

She groans, but goes back in the stall, eventually emerging in her original clothes.

"Happy now?" she asks with a scowl.

A grin spreads across my face as I nod. "Very."

I link my arm with hers, and continue on our walk through the Department Store. I've been much more open for physical contact since Rachel and I had out little 'heart-to-heart' a few days ago. Well, to Rachel at least. To the rest of the world, I'm still pretty much off limits when it comes to close contact. It surprised me initially that I would be the one to start anything, for example: linking arms like we are right now, but as the days progressed, I've been more open to the idea.

Rachel tugs my arm and signals me that she's turning down a corner. I move with her, but look up to see that she's pulled me in the Men's section.

"I want to get something for my father," she says as she un-links her arm from mine and begins searching through a rack of ties.

"Ties? Really, Rachel? That's so unoriginal," I note, moving to a clothing hanger nearby.

She huffs, but playfully nudges my shoulder. "I'll have you know that Daddy loves ties. He owns over fifty."

"Which is all the more reason to get him something else. Something like…this." I hold up a deep blue argyle sweater. I've never met either of the Berry men, _Thank God_, but Rachel shares her genetic makeup with one of them, so I figure it's hit or miss with the argyle.

By the way her face lights up, I know it's a hit.

She's already in my arms, hugging me, before I even get a chance to give her the sweater. "Daddy would absolutely adore that!" she yells when she steps back from me, holding the sweater at arm's length. "He and I both _love_ argyle, Dad hates it, but this is perfect!"

"I had a feeling," I draw out, pulling at the argyle sweater that she's wearing. She looks up at me and pulls me back down for another hug.

"You prove to be a better shopping partner than Kurt or Mercedes. Neither of them can understand my addiction with argy…oh no."

By the tone in her voice and the way her arms loosen around my neck, I know something's wrong. I push her back by her waist to see that her face has lost its color. She's not mad, I can tell, or scared, but filled with shock.

I turn around to see Finn meandering around a table filled with jeans a few feet ahead.

"Shit!" Rachel's ducked behind a nearby table, the sweater for her father lying on the floor beside her.

"Rachel Barbra Berry, I've never known you to swear before." I can't help the smile that spreads across my features at her sudden outburst. Who knew Rachel Berry could have the mouth of a sailor. "It's just Finn, I don't see what the big deal—" Her hands find my forearm and yanks me down roughly before I get to finish my sentence.

She whispers out, "Shh!", and proceeds to pull me to the back of the store. Well, this pretty much jus tops off my list of "Weird Stuff that's Happened to me Today". When we come to the back of the store near the changing rooms, she straightens out slightly behind a rack of shirts.

"Want to tell me why you have a problem with Finn?" I ask standing up. "I mean, other than the fact that he's a complete idiot?" I add once I see the Man-child trip over his own feet on the way to a coat rack. I can't believe I dated him. Twice.

She leans against the rack for support and sighs heavily. Running a hand through her hair, she answers, "The end of our relationship was not mutual." I figured that much from the first time she told me, but I don't say anything. "He still wants to date me."

Oh. I fist the end of my dress and ignore the way my ears heat up. This damn unpredictable Lima heat is getting the best of me.

"Here he comes," My eyes glance over in the direction of Finn and sure enough, he is wandering over to our section, a leather coat draped across his arm. Rachel's grabbed my arm again and is heading towards one of the Changing Rooms. In the Men's Section.

"Rachel, we can't go in there," I protest as she opens the cubicle.

"Watch me," is the last thing she whispers before pulling us both inside. Unlike all the female changing rooms in the store, this one barely has enough room for one, let alone two teenage girls. Even if one of those teenage girls happens to be 'fun sized' as she calls it. I'm pressed against the mirror on the back of the door while Rachel's in front of me, trying to back up, but her leg keeps hitting the small bench behind her. She slides her arm around me and locks the door shut when she hears footsteps approaching.

"Step on the bench," she breathes into my ear. I can already see her backing up onto it, hunching over so she isn't seen over the top.

"What?" I ask, looking at her trying to make herself unseen.

"Step on the bench so no one sees our feet," she hisses, pulling me closer. "It would be rather difficult to explain why there are two sets of female legs in a male's changing room."

She has me there. I allow her to hoist me up onto the bench. On their own will, my eyes roll to the back of my head, trying to block out the cramping in my left leg. Damn Finn –freaking- Hudson and whatever he did to Rachel to make her run and hide.

"Why did you break up with him anyway?" I whisper in her ear.

"Is this really the moment to ask questions when I'm trying to be stealthy?" She shifts slightly, opening her legs wider so she can get maintain a better footing on the bench.

"It just seems weird, seeing as how you were all over him a few months ago." As soon as the words few out mouth, already wanted to take them back. I blame the pain in my leg for my shift in mood.

"And as I recall, so were you," with annoyance lacing her voice, she throws my own comeback in my face. "I don't want to get into an argument with you Quinn and it would be advantageous if you were to stop talking. I think I hear him coming." My shoulders sink lower, but it's not from me trying to be inconspicuous.

"Hey, Mikey!" Sure enough, Finn's voice comes bellowing from the other side of the door. Rachel stiffens beside me, but otherwise doesn't move.

"Finny-boy! How are you, man?"

"Chang's here?" I whisper out. Its times like these that I hate how small Lima really is. I expect Rachel to throw me a look or scold me for my breech in silence, but she doesn't. Her eyes stay fixed on the door in front of us.

"You workin' here?" Finn asks.

"Summer Job," Mike responds. He must have pointed to Finn's jacket because the next thing he asks is, "You wanna try it on?"

"Yeah," Finn answers excitedly. "Its leather and I know how much chicks dig leather so…" Rachel and I both scoff at his comment. We share brief look before listening back in to their conversation.

"Well, here, check it out in a full-length mirror. The ones in our changing rooms are better than the ones around the store."

_Dammit_.

Two sets of feet begin approaching the cubicle that we're in, and I hunch myself down lower to keep myself from being seen by Finn. Mike begins to fiddle with the door handle, trying to push it in, and Rachel's hands come in contact with my bicep, squeezing her nails into me until it starts to burn. Damn Finn and his Paul Bunyan height. Damn Finn and his need to buy clothes that he thinks will get him a girlfriend. Damn Finn and his impeccable timing.

"I don't know why this one won't open," Mike says, confusion lining his voice. "I'm just a floor greeter, so I don't have the key. Sorry man."

Finn's feet move away from the door, but his voice still comes loud and clear. "That's alright. I'll just find a mirror somewhere else. Later Mike."

Rachel releases her grip on my arm when Mike's feet move away from the changing room as well. When neither of their voices are in earshot, I turn to her,

"I think it's safe to get out now." Rachel looks at the door then back to me before nodding. She holds out her hand as to tell me to step down first, so I jump off the bench. I take a moment to stretch out my calf, I'm pretty sure I got a Charlie Horse from standing in that position for so long, before I limp over towards the door. I look back towards Rachel, who's still standing on the bench with her eyes closed.

With a sigh, I slide the lock open and take a step out the cubicle.

"Quinn?" To my left, Mike is holding up a pair of jeans to Brad, the Piano Man from Glee Club. "Why were you in the Men's Changing Room?"

_Dammit_. I rotate towards him and lamely respond, "Mike, I was just, uh—"

That's all I can get out before Rachel comes falling out of the cubicle on top of me, making me land face-first into the not-too-often washed carpet. Her knee comes in contact with the small space of my lower back when she gets off of me, and I groan into the carpet due to embarrassment. If this isn't the icing on top of a perfect afternoon, then I don't know what is.

I look up to see Brad rolling his eyes and shaking his head at the two of us. Rachel grabs me by my arm and lifts me off the ground, and Brad takes the jeans from Mike, gives him a smile and walks away. If my entire body wasn't aching, I would ask the guy why he never talks, but I'm in too much pain to care.

"Michael," Rachel starts, "Quinn and I were just checking to see if your Changing Rooms were properly ventilated—"

"If you're hiding from Finn, he left a few minutes ago." Mikes interruption leaves Rachel, for the first time I've ever seen, flabbergasted. She tries to start again, but he holds his hands up to silence her. "I'm going to turn around now and pretend like I didn't see you two or my boss will have my ass for letting two girls sneak into a Men's Changing Room on my shift."

Without even so much as a 'good-bye', Mike leaves us standing alone in the back of the store. I sneak a glance over at Rachel, who's crossed her arms and staring at the space where Mike was. I knew I should've just left it alone. I had to go and ruin the moment by asking her about him. Not knowing what else to do, I run my hand alone my arm where I can feel the slight dip in my skin where Rachel's nails dug into it.

"He only wants me when someone else wants me."

I look over at Rachel to see that she's staring at me. "What?"

She inhales sharply before answering. "That's why I broke up with Finn. He only wants me when someone else wants me. Whenever someone showed any interest in me, he suddenly wanted me for himself." Her arms fall at her sides and she walks over to me. "That's why I broke up with Finn. If I am going to be with someone, I want them to want to be with me even when no one else does."

My eyes suddenly find interest in the ground, and I begin to fist the edge of my dress again. "I'm sorry I got snippy back there."

Rachel's feet move closer to mine, and I look up into her eyes once more. She shrugs and pats me on the shoulder. "It's alright." She snakes her arm around mine, effectively linking them together. "Now, let's go get that sweater for my Daddy."

We make our way back to the section where the sweaters are, and pick up a new one from off the rack. We're waiting on line at the cash register when she turns and asks me,

"What are you doing on Sunday?"

Ever since I moved in with Mercedes last year, Sunday's have been our day. I respond, "I go to Mass with Mercedes. Her church welcomed me when mine shunned be after getting pregnant, so we always go to church together on Sundays. We aren't a part of the same Denomination, but God is God, right?"

She's studying my face again, and honestly, I've gotten so used to it over the past few days that it doesn't even bother me anymore. Slowly, a grin spreads across it. "That's really kind of you."

"It's really kind of _them_," I laugh. Honesty, they didn't have to take me in. Her church has shown me more kindness than the members of my old one.

"Another time then."

By the way she shrugs with a sly smile, I want to ask her what she has on her mind. I decide against it and move up to the register when the cashier calls us.

* * *

><p>It's Sunday morning, and I'm in the middle of fixing my hair for Church when my phone buzzes, letting me know that I have a new message. I open it and find that it's a text from Rachel:<p>

'**Hey, what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?'**

"Tell Mercedes I said 'Hi'." I turn from my vanity to find Mother leaning in my doorway. She throws me a half-hearted smile before waving, and sluggishly walking down the hallway. My face falls a little at how easy it is for me to forget that I wasn't the only one affected by my family getting shunned from the Church. I wasn't the only one who left, and although she refuses each one of Mercedes' proposals for Mass each Sunday, I know Mother misses practicing her religion with others.

Sighing, I tap out a response to Rachel:

'**Nothing, do you have something in mind?'**

I grab my purse and head downstairs to wait for Mercedes. By the time I get down there and her car pulls up, another message pops up on my phone:

'**Come over around noon?'**

Smiling, I slip into her car while typing out a message to Rachel:

'**Sure :)'**

"Someone's in a good mood." Mercedes' voice brings me out of my trance. "Who're you texting?"

"Rachel," I respond while buckling my seat belt.

I disregard the way her eyes widen in slight shock. "You're serious about this whole 'making amends thing' aren't you?"

"Yes I am. I thought you of all people would have a little faith in me."

"Oh, I have a lot of faith in you," she says with a smile. "Thank the Lord."

I turn my attention to the window, watching the rain drops pool around the wipers. "Indeed."

Twenty minutes later, as Mercedes and I make out way up the stairs of our Church, I get a text that nearly makes me fall down the entire flight:

'**Bring your bathing suit'**

My eyes fall to my thighs, the product of lack of exercise and my Hot Pocket diet. Already I start to dread what tomorrow has to bring. Great.

* * *

><p>The show that Rachel and Quinn watch is called <em>Criminal Minds<em> and the episode is called "Masterpiece", if anyone has any interest.

The title of this chapter is inspired by Killswitch Engage's "Inhale".


	5. Wake

**Author's Note:** Okay, I want to say thank you to all of those that have been following this story. The number of alerts and such after the last chapter took a definite spike and it's really appreciated. To be honest, it wasn't one of my favorites, so to see the positive response it had was pretty shocking. Anyway, here is Chapter 5.

* * *

><p>I collapse headfirst onto the couch, not even caring that half of my body is still on the floor. My lungs are <em>beyond<em> burning and they're heaving so badly that it feels like they're about to cave in and fall right out of my chest. My legs have pretty much gone to hell and aren't even responding when I try and move them onto the couch with the rest of my body. Every pore in my body is releasing so much sweat so that I can already see a Quinn-shaped outline on the cushion underneath my torso. God I haven't felt this worn down since I joined the Cheerios again. I barely made it two miles before my leg decided to give out on me, forcing me to limp the rest of the way home.

It's stupid to think that one morning of exercise could make up for almost a full semester of not doing anything, but I couldn't just jump in a bathing suit looking like _this_. The 'this', which happens to be everywhere from the waist down, is set back that shouldn't have happened. I swore after middle school that I would never go back to that and although I had a bit of a relapse, I'm not going to fall back into that pattern. Friendless, acne-filled, chubby Lucy Q is long gone. And I intend to make it stay that way.

Since these legs won't respond to just sheer will power, perhaps another approach would do better. I plant my arms on either side of my body, and push myself up, _God, that hurts too_, just enough so that my face isn't directly in the cushion. Once I position myself up far enough that my head is turned towards my legs, I set my plan in motion. Breathing erratically, I let out,

"Wiggle, you left leg."

Hey, if it worked for Uma Thurman's character in _Kill Bill,_ it sure as hell can work for me. I stare at my lower half more intently, concentrating on moving my leg.

"Wiggle, you left leg," I mumble once more, only slightly louder than I did the last time. "Wiggle, you left le—"

"Quinnie, what are you doing?"

My head snaps back so fast that a sharp pain shoots right up through my spine and causes me to fall backwards onto the floor. Staring up at my Mother's blurry figure through tears threatening to leave my eyes makes me wish I hadn't agreed to go to Rachel's house today.

"Sweetie, let me help you up," she moves to grab my arm, but I muster up some a small amount of force and slap it away.

"Don't touch me," I say through gritted teeth. "I don't need your help."

Mother makes a noise, muttering something that sounds like "Stubborn", but places her hands on either side of my arm and tries to pull me up again. What doesn't she get?

"I said, 'Don't touch me'. I can do it myself," I want to push her away, but I've used up all my energy on slapping her hand away.

She's got me up to a little above her knee when she drops me so fast that I don't even get a chance to catch my breath. My feeble groan is muffled by the carpet that my cheek collided with.

"You look like you're doing a bang-up job on your own." I don't even need to look at her to know that she's probably crossed her arms by now, rolling her eyes at my pitiful situation. This woman wasn't so damn sarcastic when _he_ was around. "Now do you need my help or not, Quinn?"

Pros: Self-satisfaction.

Cons: I'll be lying on the floor for who knows how long. My body will ache until it completely shuts down. I'm already dehydrated and in desperate need of water. The horrible cramp in my leg from a few days ago seems to be coming back. If I don't die from all of that, I'll die from embarrassment over the fact that I've ended up face first on the ground for the second time in two weeks.

The Cons win out this round.

"I want your help," I mumble into the carpet.

"Want… or need?"

"Jesus Christ, I _need_ your help!" I'm face first on the floor with an aching body, what more does she want? My waist if lifted off the ground, followed by my face and onto the couch. She places me lightly in the seat, fluffing the pillows behind my back and stands in front of me. Breathing heavily, I pant out, "You're a sadist."

With a raised eyebrow, she responds, "I'm a mother trying to show her daughter that it is okay to ask for help every once in a while." I roll my eyes. I still think she's sadistic. "I know this is going to be pointless seeing as how you can barely walk right now, but stay put. I'll be right back with an icepack and breakfast."

"You made breakfast?" I say in disbelief. "But you never make breakfast." Not even when I was younger would the woman lift a finger when it came to food. It was usually one of the maids.

"Yes, I made breakfast." The tone in her voice quickly goes from sarcasm to frustration. "It's the first time in weeks that I'm not completely exhausted and I saw you take off for a run this morning, so I decided to have breakfast on the table for you when you got back. Now is that so hard to believe?" A pain shoots up through my chest, but I know this time it's not from the running. "Have a little faith in me, will you Quinnie. I'm trying."

She leaves me alone with my musings as she takes off down the hall. _Ouch_. Not 24-hrs ago did I say the same exact thing to Mercedes, only she really did have faith in me. I really do give Mother the short end of the stick most days, but anyone would after their parent basically turned their back on them.

With all the force I can summon up, I lift my leg onto the couch, stretching it out as far as I can go. I can already feel a calm sweep over my lower half, and I pluck a cushion from behind my back to put under my knee. Much, much better.

"I got you two icepacks: one for your leg and one for your face. Sorry I dropped you so hard." I was in so much pain that I didn't even feel the pain on my face from when I fell. Now that I'm aware of it, I do notice a slight tingling sensation. Mother comes in and hands me both icepacks before gingerly settling the food on my lap. I place one on my left leg and hold the other up to my face. This is what I get for being stubborn.

"I'm sorry." I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, not even strong enough to look her in the eyes. I can hear her shuffle towards me, and she kneels down in front of me.

"Sweetie, I know you're still mad at me. I get that, okay. I'm not going to pretend like I know what you're going through, because I don't," She pauses to wipe a strand of hair away from her face. "I'm not asking for much, but what I'm asking of you is just to trust me a little. I'm doing the best that I can."

I look into her eyes, and they're not only glistening from unshed tears, but they're also glistening with remorse. "I know, mom," I say in a small voice.

She leans forward and kisses me on the forehead, wiping away my sweat with her hand as she does so. Mother stands up, running a hand along her face, trying to hide any traces of tears that may have slipped out.

"I'll go get you some water, okay. Eat up." She runs her hand along my face one last time before exiting the room. I exhale roughly, trying my hardest not to let my own tears slip out, and dig through the breakfast that my mother made me.

* * *

><p>I learned the hard way that when you're trying to appear slimmer, even after a futile attempt of running for an hour, eating pancakes is not the way to go. After staring at myself in my bathing suit for almost fifteen minutes, I grab a pair of jean shorts to go over my bottoms and an old WMHS gym shirt to go over my top.<p>

Before I left my house, Rachel sent me a text telling me that the door was already open, so when I arrive, I just push it in and head to the back yard. I hope my attire looks casual. Wearing shorts in the pool may look odd, but it looks much better than the sight underneath them. The shorts aren't doing much to cover up my thighs, but hopefully she'll be too busy doing something else to notice.

Why did I have to eat all those Hot Pockets during the Season Premiere of _Rizzoli & Isles?_

I slide the door open to see that Rachel is lounging in the pool on a long, inflatable tube in her bathing suit with sunglasses on. One look at Rachel in her bikini immediately makes me want to turn home and run for miles until I get my old body back. I knew she was in shape from her Britney Spears moment earlier this year, but goodness, the girl puts my lack of abs and thunder thighs to shame. My hands unconsciously pull my shirt below my waist. Her head is tilted back on the headrest of the tube, but once she hears me close the door, she pulls up and lifts her shades up with two fingers.

"Hey Quinn," she says lazily with a smile. "Grab a floatie from over there and hop in." She cocks her head towards the end of walkway where there is a tube of the same design as the one Rachel's lying on. I walk to the end of the platform where the tubes are while Rachel resumes her previous position on her tube.

I pull my shirt over my head and fold it neatly on the chair beside me. I contemplate taking off my pants, but once I sneak a glance over at Rachel in the pool, I decide against it. I'd rather have tan lines than take them off. Slowly, I take the floatie to the water, settle myself in it and kick off until I'm in the center near Rachel.

"How was Church yesterday?" she asks, spinning around to look at me over her frames.

Struggling to move closer to her, I respond, "Fine. How was your Sunday?"

"Uneventful," she answers almost immediately. "But, I figure I could combat my day of boredom by doing relaxing in the pool."

I raise my eyebrow. "How does doing nothing combat doing nothing?"

She shrugs and kicks a little water on my legs. "Don't question me, Fabacon. My logic is flawless. Tanning, and possibly swimming, counts for something in my mind."

"Are you seriously going to call me that?"

"As long as I keep cooking, I can call you anything I want, remember?" She lifts up her glasses and playfully winks before pushing them down once more.

I roll my eyes, the girl is _pushing_ it, but lean back on the tube anyway. At least I can get a nice tan and a free meal out of it. Rachel couldn't have picked a better time for tanning actually. The sun is at its highest in the sky, but the clouds offer somewhat of a buffer between the rays, so burning is out of the question. I yawn, stretching out my slightly aching limbs and close my eyes. Tanning isn't looking so bad after all. Not at all…

"Quinn. Quinn wake up!"

I nearly jump out the floatie at the rate Rachel is shaking my shoulder. She's leaning over the edge of the pool, a cup of liquid in one hand a towel in the other.

"What the hell Rachel," I say with slight raspiness in my voice. I closed my eyes for only a few seconds, yet my throat feels like Nevada. "Why are you shaking me?"

She shoves the cup in my hands and stands with her hands on her hips. "You fell asleep for over an hour. I got you some ice tea."

An hour? Well that explains why my throat is dry. "I didn't even realize I was asleep," I say before I take a sip.

Rachel puts the towel on the edge of the pool and sits on it, her feet dangling in the water. "Yeah, that's generally how it works when people fall asleep by accident." She tilts her head towards the cup. "Do you like it?"

I take a long gulp and throw my head back on the headrest. "It's delicious." She has a satisfied grin on her face and starts to splash around water with her feet. "I could get used to doing this every day."

She looks down at me curiously. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Quinn, because I've never been to your house, but I've always assumed that you had a pool."

Handing her back the empty cup, I lift myself up and play with the frayed edges of my shorts. It's true. I do have a pool at my house. And a hot tub. But lately, I haven't been up to using it. Especially after the whole Finn-thing. I still get flashbacks of his 'early arrival' in my sleep. Shuddering, I answer, "I do, but there's no one to share it with."

A shy smile, along with a slight flush, creeps its way across Rachel's face. I see the Lima heat is getting to her too. Wordlessly, she slips off the ledge and into the pool. My hand stills its actions on my pants as she inches closer to me. She walks over to the side of the floatie, the shy smile replaced by a grin.

"Rachel, what are you—"

I barely finish my sentence before I'm flipped over into the pool, water instantly filling my open mouth. I come up soaking wet, my hair completely _ruined_, spitting water out of my lips. Rachel's got her hands over her mouth, trying to cover her laughter.

"You think this is funny?" I rake a hand through my hair, moving it off my forehead.

She doubles over in laughter, gripping her sides. "I think this is _very_ funny."

I pretend to roll my imaginary sleeves up. "You know you're gonna get it, right?"

Rachel dives head first in the water, and begins swimming away from me. I dive towards her, but she dodges my attack, swimming faster than I ever could. The damn girl must be part fish because every time I attempt to catch her, she manages to wriggle out of my loose hold and swim away.

She comes up briefly, and sends a small wave at my face, before diving back down in the water, splashing me with her feet on her way down. _Oh, it's on._ I dive under the water, catching her ankle between the crook of my arm. _Gotcha_. I'm pulling her closer me when she swings her front towards me and pushes me off by my shoulders. I try it three more times before I give up. Between my soaked shorts weighing me down and my muscles that have not forgotten the pain that I put them through this morning, I'm growing tired of this cat and mouse game.

My breathing is erratic so I lean my back against the edge of the pool. Today I have done most physical activity than I have in months now, and it's wearing me down embarrassingly. My out of shape body is struggling to keep up with hers. I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds, taking a minute to regulate my breathing, when Rachel's arms pin me to the side of the pool.

"Say 'Rachel Barbra Berry is the greatest singer ever'." She pants out, tightening her grip on my shoulders.

"What are we, five?" My laughs are giving me away. She's definitely living in the past.

"I don't hear anyone saying my name," she says in a sing-songy voice. I struggle against her, trying to lunge my arms out to her, but she moves her arms from my shoulders to my arms. The only body part I have left to defend myself is my legs, so I start kicking them out in every which way at her.

"Never!" I yell, shaking my head, hitting her with water from my hair in the process. Rachel takes a step back, moving away from my legs, but keeps her grip firmly on my arms. I push forward, trying to reach out to her, and she pushes forward at the same time, slamming a knee between my thighs. Even through my shorts I can feel her knee pressing hard against me, keeping me in place.

I slide my body forward onto her thigh, trying to propel myself further to push her—oh no.

"Rachel!" I try my damnest not to whimper her name by the way her leg is rubbing onto me. A sensation that I haven't felt in months slowly makes its way up my body, and I lean forward from the contact. This cannot be _happening_.

"I didn't hear the rest of it. But it's a start," she must have taken my yelling of her name in the wrong way, and she continues to push her thigh onto me, moving it higher in the process.

"Rachel," I breathe out, trying to sound as normal…_oh God_…as normal as possible. "Please stop."

She just laughs and tosses her hair back. "Oh come on, it's not that hard, Quinn. I'll even help you. Rachel Barbra Berry," I take my bottom lip between my teeth and close my eyes. This is not _happening_. "Is the," her knee presses against me harder as she leans into my ear and whispers, "Greatest. Singer." Her lips faintly brush against my ear, "Ever."

"Mmphmm." It comes out on its own, low and uninhibited. _Shitshitshitshit._ There's no way she couldn't have heard that. Her arms loosen around mine, and when her knee moves from under me, another groan slips out on its own. I don't want to open my eyes. I just want to crawl in a hole and die. Forget that this day never happened. Forget that I never met the argyle-sweater wearing girl in freshman year. Forget that I was ever even-

"Quinn, are you alright?" I know how awkward I must look, hunched over in her pool with my eyes tightly shut. Reluctantly, I open my eyes slowly, waiting for the shit-storm that's about to come down on me. Rachel's stepped about a foot and a half away from me, watching me with concern. "Are you okay? Was I hurting you?"

Hurting me? _Hurting me?_ Are you kidding me right now? "No," I manage, bringing a hand to the ledge behind me for support. I would sink into the ledge of this pool if I could.

Her eyes are roaming my body, as if she's looking for some explanation for my odd demeanor. Her eyes contract and she tilts her head slightly, opening her mouth,

"Rachel, are you out there!" A man's heavy voice from inside the house breaks her concentration, and her eyes dilate at the sound.

"My Dad's home," she says, before moving beside me and pushing herself off the ledge, a little bit of water from her body splashes on me in the process. I don't turn around, because I know she's gone by the muffled sounds coming from in the house. For the briefest of moments, I allow myself to think it was all in my head. Yes. That's what happened. I hallucinated for a while and that's all.

I make an attempt to move from the spot that I seem to have been melted into and I know as soon as I lmove my legs, that my entire mantra is absolute bullshit. My left leg moves, and I know for sure that there is more than just pool water down there. _Shit_. I cannot believe that I just got…wet in Rachel's Pool. Rachel freaking Berry! Stuff like this doesn't happen to me, stuff like this happens to Santana, not me. Not me. Not me. Not me.

"Quinn, come inside and meet my Dad!"

I turn my head to see Rachel waving me in, a towel wrapped around her waist. A towel. Yes. I need a towel. I push myself off the ledge and walk slowly toward her house. This has got to be top three of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Each step I take is only making my problem more apparent down there, and I cannot _handle_ this.

When I slide the pool door open, I find a bespectacled man a few inches taller than me, taking food out of a grocery bag and putting it into the refrigerator. He notices me and stops his movements, wiping his hands on his pants before holding one out.

"Nice to meet you, Quinn. I'm Hiram," his voice comes out strong and firm, and his handshake matches his voice. "I've seen you on stage ever since you joined Glee Club, but it's good to actually _meet_ you. I enjoyed your duet at Sectionals."

I can't find words. I'm too dumbstruck to say anything. I'm too dumbstruck to _do_ anything. Here I am, standing in the man's kitchen after getting…_God I hate this word_… aroused in his pool, opening and closing my mouth like a fish. I can't do anything but stare at him, hoping to mask my shame in my bout of awkwardness. When his eyes start to skirt around the room, waiting for an answer, I blurt out, "Thanksnicetomeetyoutoo."

He seems to take it, but he still looks me up and down before motioning for something behind me. "You're wet, go grab a towel."

"What?" Oh god, he can tell. He can _freaking_ tell. He can sense it. It's probably written all over my face. God Fabray, how could you be so stupid?

"You're dripping pool water all over the floor," he points to the puddle underneath my feet. "There are towels behind you."

I turn my head to see a rack of towels near the patio door. I swiftly grab one off the rack and tie it around my waist. Rachel's dad has already turned away from me and resumed putting his groceries away. Looking down frantically at my situation, I rush out, "Can I use your bathroom?" He turns around, holding up a bag of grapes and crackers. "I need to wash the chlorine out my hair before it turns colors," I add as an excuse.

"You mean other than the pink?" Still with the carton of crackers in one hand, he makes an up-and-down motion over his short cut hair. "I'm referring to your streaks," he says with a smile.

"Oh." I try and smile back, but it comes out as more of a grimace.

He sighs, but points down the hall. "First door on the left."

I know where it is, so I walk there as quickly as possible, tripping over a stool on my way over, and lock myself in the Berry's bathroom. My hands instantly grip the sides of my head, trying to go over what exactly _happened_ out there.

Okay. Me. Rachel. Pool. Water. Platonic friends being platonic. Play-fighting. One friend pinning another friend to the side of a pool. (That happens all the time, right?) Legs. Thighs. Shiver. Warm. Very Warm. Very Goo—

I stop myself before the thought even has the time to turn into something more. Hooking my thumbs into the loops on my jeans, I pull them down, along with my bikini bottoms in one fluid motion. Even with my bottoms soaked with pool water, I can tell that's not the only type of liquid lining them.

"Shit," I say meekly. 'Shit' seems to have replaced 'dammit' for the moment, but either one can work in this crappy situation. I wad up a handful of tissue from the dispenser, and slide it across my bottoms, hoping to clean up some of the wetness down there. I grab another handful and wipe across myself, shivering at the feeling when my hand brushes over that spot that is unfortunately still wired. Oh, if Finn could feel what I'm feeling now, I'm sure he'd take back his words.

Once I pull my jeans back up, I run my head over the cold tap. I turned the handle so far over to the 'C' that I thought it just might snap off. It feels like a slushie facial, running down my face at such a cold temperature, but it's needed. In more ways than one. When I turn the tap off, I stare at the door for a good two minutes before I make an attempt to leave the bathroom. I've got to go out there sometime. I rest my forehead on the door, allowing my warm breath accumulate on the wood, before gripping the handle.

I pull the door open and slowly make my way back into the kitchen. Rachel is sitting on a stool with a towel wrapped around her neck while her father is setting up grapes and crackers on a long plate. I slide into the seat next to Rachel without making eye contact and set my arms on the island in front of me.

"Sorry this is the extent of my culinary skills. Lee's the Chef of the house," Hiram pushes the plate in between Rachel and I, and I can see her reach out for a grape. _Pretend that everything is alright. Breathe._

"Hello!" Rachel's raising an arm in the air, obviously offended by her father's words.

"Rachel's good too, I guess. You get that from him, not me," he pushes her head to the side, and she laughs into it. "Although, I would have had something prepared if I knew we were having company over."

I look down at my hands, feeling the familiar sensation of a blush rise to my cheeks. _Pretend that you just had a temporary lapse in sanity._

"At least it's not a boy," Rachel reasons beside me. _Yeah, totally. Because a girl would not get excited from the mere brush of a leg against a certain body part like a boy would. Totally._ "And you're home early. I normally prepare meals for Quinn and I whenever she's over."

I glance up at Hiram to see watch his expression, and his eyes simply roam between the two of us before he changes the subject. "So Quinn, I heard that you were Captain of the Cheerleading Team."

The fingers of my left hand grab onto a cracker to distract the thoughts that are raging in the back of my skull. "I was, but I quit to stay in Glee Club."

His face turns to shock. "Wow. Rachel tells me that the Cheerleading Team is Nationally Ranked. It was admirable of you to quit like that." _Pretend like that wasn't the most action you've felt in months._

"Some things in Glee Club are worth saying for."

The silence in the room after my last comment is maddening. _Shit_. I can't believe I just said that. Now that there isn't any noise to block out my thoughts, they start to run rampant in my head. Finn's voice, Rachel's long stares, that feeling in the area below my navel- that is, until, Rachel's hand is on top of mine. I meet her eyes for the first time since I sat down, and I don't think I've ever seen anyone with more appreciation in them before in my life.

"Well, I know when to make my exit," Hiram wipes his hands on a towel and grabs a can of soda from the fridge. "Quinn, nice meeting you," he addresses me. "Rachel, I'll be upstairs if you need anything."

With that, he walks out the room, leaving me with embarrassment on my face and Rachel's hand over mine. She releases it, and reaches for another grape in silence. I can do this. I can do this. I can try and not make this anymore awkward than it already is.

"That went well, didn't it? Even in lieu the surprise intrusion, I'd say that wasn't bad at all. You could have been a bit more vocal, but all-in-all it was a pleasant experience." She knows. That's it, she knows. She was just playing dumb in the pool. She knew all along of how my body reacted to hers. That deceiving little— "I told you my Dad isn't the one to worry about. Daddy is another issue, but meeting my Dad went better than you thought, didn't it?"

"Oh thank God," my body slackens considerably in the seat, and I hunch over, resting my head on the island. Crisis Averted.

"Are you sure that everything is fine?" I lift my head to see Rachel staring at me with concern filling her eyes. She trails her fingers lightly up and down my back soothingly. "You're face is absolutely flushed and you look like you're about to pass out. If it's because you're nervous around my father, there's no need to be."

I sit up straight, which causes her hand to fall from my back and brush against my thigh when she pulls back. "I'm fine Rach. Just a little tired, that's all." My hand comes up to cradle my forehead, and I feel how hot I really am. I know I can't blame it on the Lima heat this time.

Rachel's eyes are fixed on my jeans when she asks, "Why were you wearing shorts in the pool? I can see that you have bottoms on underneath, because honestly Quinn those shorts are shorter than short, but why wear them at all?"

Great. First stimulate me then interrogate me. I too exhausted to come up with a lie, so I answer. "I'm not naturally thin like you," I bring a hand out to her frame. "I haven't been as active as I have been during school so I've gained a few. I figure the shorts could distract from it." My eyes fall down to my thighs before I look back into her eyes. "I'm not going back to Lucy though."

Her mouth hangs open a bit before her eyes go around the room. "Okay, First of all, I'm not thin, I'm fit. Second, it doesn't come naturally. I work out in the mornings five days a week- 40 minutes on the elliptical and 20 minutes of weight training." I suddenly become very aware that Rachel's still in her bikini and that those 40 minutes on the elliptical must be the source of her very toned legs. Which, now that I think about it, are quite ni…stop it. "Third, you're hot Quinn. Extra pounds or no extra pounds. And you were only coming to see me. No need to impress anyone here."

She's pulling me, before I even get a chance to fully register the compliment, into the living room. "Come on sleepy, if you're going to take another nap, let's at least make sure that you're inside this time." So I let her pull me into her living room, while trying desperately to keep my eyes above her waist.

* * *

><p>We're on her bed, listening to instrumental music and just <em>being<em> like we often do, when she rolls over to me and asks, "What are you thinking about?"

I look down to find her arm draped across my midsection, _when did that get there?_, and her brown eyes staring into mine. "School," I lie. The idea of bringing up what's really on my mind, which is her pool, doesn't seem fitting.

She stares at me for a while, and a lazy smile forms across her face. With half-opened eyelids, she says, "You have beautiful eyes."

The number of times I've heard that is staggering, but coming from her lips, it just sounds right. "Thanks," I answer incapable of saying anything else.

In one quick movement, both of her arms are on either side of my waist and her chin is resting above my navel. "You're eyes are really beautiful," she stretches out the 'really', letting he tongue linger a bit too long on her teeth than necessary.

"So are yours," I say without trying to stop myself. It's true.

Rachel crawls her way up my body until she is eye to eye with me, bringing her finger to trace around my left eye. "They have this greenish tint to it that's absolutely breathtaking," she brings her hand to the side of my face, which I know is already full of color. "In the sunlight, it's like the color changes to match your hair."

She's close- too close. She's beyond 'trying' because she's actually succeeding by the way her breath is mixing with mine. It's hot. It's hot, and I know it's not only due to the rays of sun coming through her window. I close my eyes and focus on the sunlight on my face. Focus on my breathing. Focus on how hot I am. Definitely not focusing on the way Rachel's lips have found my neck.

It starts as a light brush, on accident I think, then her lips part and open enough to have a slither of tongue slide across my neck. When it happens again, I know for sure it's no accident. Every slide of Rachel's tongue is keeping me in pinned to the bed, but my eyes are still wired shut. She starts at the base of my neck, placing short kisses while her tongue darts out in search of my skin. Slowly, she moves up, taking the time to draw patterns with her tongue on my skin, until she's right under my jaw.

I'm paralyzed. Paralyzed when her mouth finds its way to my jaw. Paralyzed when that feeling shoots up through my core as her tongue plays with the space between my earlobe and my head. Paralyzed when her lips have found their way to my cheek and are parting across my skin in the most delicate way possible. I'm not paralyzed, however, when I feel her lift her top half off of me, for loss of contact that I shouldn't want in the first place.

"Tell me you don't want this." The words don't even sound like they're hers. She speaking in a voice I've never heard before. The voice worry's me. I don't know when her fingers start moving slowly down my face, but when I become aware of it, my lids fly open. Rachel's eyes don't look like they belong to her either; they're different from how I remember. Filled with something I've only ever see when guys look at me. I think its lust.

She tucks her hair behind her ears, and gently pushes mine, which is starting to clump due to sweat, out my face. Her face moves closer to mine only a fraction of an inch before she glides her tongue over her bottom lip and asks again, "Tell me you don't want this."

I don't know what I want. This is all happening too fast. The way her eyes seem to stare straight through me is unsettling, but what's more unsettling is the way my hips seem to jerk up at the response. Rachel looks down between us to the source of the action, and lifts her head with a grin. I don't know what to do, so I lie there, as she pushes her lips against mine.

I don't think I've ever been more frightened in my life.

Her lips fit perfectly with mine, and she moves with intent. When her whole body presses down on me, I think my lungs are about to explode out of my chest. They burn, worse than they do when I run, worse than they did during any Cheerios practice, worse than they did when I was with Puck or Finn or Sam. It burns worse than it should, yet when she tugs on my bottom lip with her teeth, my hips rise to meet hers again. I don't know whether to run out the door or run my fingers through her hair.

When Rachel's tongue skirts and curls across mine in a way that makes me want to repeat every Hail Mary I know, I'm afraid of the way my body pushes up to meet hers. The movement is so jerky and frantic and needy and all the other words I'm too scared to think, that I wonder if she's about to fly off the bed. Her lips, still against mine, bend upwards and she shifts her weight to one of my legs by sliding one of her own between me. The satisfaction my lower half gets when it accepts her leg so desperately is what seals my fate to this bed. I wonder if my fate was sealed the moment I showed up on her doorstep.

It's her who pushes down first, letting me know that it's alright. It's not alright. No matter how many times I repeat the movement she set in motion or how many times in one minute I forget my own name at the feeling, it's not alright. It shouldn't be alright. It can't be alright.

I don't know if it can ever be alright.

Her hands are at my sides, the gentle touches gone, and she is roughly working them up and down, occasionally stopping at my waist to graze them across the small exposed patch of skin between my skirt and my shirt. Mine are at the safest place they can be other than the bed: the small section between her upper back and lower. If they're here while I'm pushed up against her, I can almost pretend like it's someone else. I don't have to feel the way her shirt lifts up slightly from her bra, or the way her waist curves inward. I can almost imagine that her lips are someone else's too, if I ignore the flavored lip gloss she's wearing. My leg wraps around hers without me telling it too and I push myself higher than I ever have before. I only hope that pushing higher will get me out of this perpetual state of conflicting emotions, and that I can finally be free of all that's happening.

There are sounds coming from my mouth that don't even sound like my voice, and for the briefest moments, I wonder if this isn't really me. If this is some person who's body I somehow occupied. Someone who's body responds almost pathetically to another girls' body. Someone who allows said girls name to trip off her tongue when breathing becomes almost impossible. Someone whose undergarments are soaked through to the point where they're afraid it shows. I don't know whose body I've inhabited, and when I open my eyes to tear my head away from Rachel's lips, I'm hit with the realization that it's my own. It's my own body that's doing all these things, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

It just so happens that when Rachel pushes her leg down one final time that makes everything go pitch black in my world, the thunder outside my window strikes and I shoot up from under the covers. Every inch of me is covered in sweat, yet I've never felt more cold in my life. My eyes are trying to adjust to the darkness around me, which is in stark contrast to the sunlight shining through Rachel's wind—

"No," I breathe to no one but myself. _No_, I think as I push back the covers. _No_, I think as my hand travel down my stomach to see if it really happened. _No,_ I think as my fingers go through the last barrier of fabric.

My hand is surrounded by warmth and wetness and a lingering feeling of Rachel's thigh pressed against mine.

"Fuck."

* * *

><p>The title of this chapter is inspired by "Wake" by Linkin Park and also a subtle allusion to "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin<p> 


	6. Of Smoke and Fog

**Author's note:** Again, you guys are simply amazing. Thank you all for all the alerts and everything. Now, onto Chapter 6.

* * *

><p>Click.<p>

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can I come over?"

"Well now, someone's decided to grace me with their presence. Imagine that."

"I'm serious, Santana. Can I come over?"

"Hmmm, I guess I could squeeze you in. Besides, I could use a model."

"A model for what?"

"Just come on over Tubbers, we'll work out the details when you get here."

"…thanks."

"Just let yourself in. You know where I'll be."

Click.

* * *

><p>"You know, when you said you needed a model, I thought you meant like an actual model. Not someone to sit here while you pretend to draw." As soon as I'd gotten into Santana's house, she pulled me inside and forced me to sit on her bed while she stood in front of her vanity, drawing me on a newly brought easel. Crumpled in the corner near the wastebasket, were sketches of all different sizes, heavy scratch marks visible even in their wrinkled state. Some of the drawings were of her family, some of famous people, but most of them, were of Brittany. Photographs of her were taped to the walls as reference and its portrait companion lie crushed on the floor amongst all the other disregarded drawings. Santana sticks her pencil in her mouth briefly, before taking it out and twirling it between her fingers.<p>

"Yeah well, I blame you and Rachel. Ever since Brittany saw that portrait you guys got at the Fair, she's wanted one. So, I've taken it upon myself to draw one of her. She doesn't know it yet, but it's gonna be awesome." The mention of Rachel's name causes me to drop my shoulders. "Now sit still, I need practice. Hold your pose."

I lift my shoulders until I'm in the position she originally put me in, but it doesn't do anything to lift my mood. Santana's left hand is flying all across the paper, occasionally looking at me for reference, while my thoughts are flying around my head. I couldn't go back to sleep after that dream. I stayed up all night, looking out the window at the display of lightning shooting across the sky, contemplating what it feels like to be afraid of your own thoughts. I think this is what it's like. No matter how hard I wanted to think of something else, the image of brown bangs and a short skirt was burned into my mind. What's worse is that I swear I could still feel her against me, hours after it was over. Hours after the dream had ended, I could still feel Rachel's hand on my face and lips upon my neck.

There's a part of mind that's foreign and wants something that it shouldn't. It's unfamiliar territory that I don't want to travel, yet every time I close my eyes, I'm transported there before I can even stop. After chewing on my fingers proved to be unsatisfactory, and really unattractive, I had to do something. I had to go somewhere. I didn't know exactly where to go or who to turn to, but I ended up here on Santana's bed, wondering what went wrong. Where I went wrong.

"You know, when I said, 'sit still', that applies to your face as well. I keep watching your face go through a number of emotions and honestly, Q, it's freaking me out. You look constipated one minute and full of shit the next." Behind the easel, Santana stands on her toes to look at me over it, and although I can only see from her eyes up, I can tell she's smiling. I want to return the smile, but I can't. Not feeling like this I can. She lowers herself, moving behind to her vanity where she lights a cigarette and the smoke begins to filter up above her head in a cloud. With the cigarette still in her mouth, she says, "So, spit it out. I know you've got something on your mind." Before I can even protest, she's shouting slightly, "and don't even pretend like its nothing. I've known you for years now. I can tell when shit's bothering you."

She steps to the right of her station, allowing me to see her full body, but doesn't stop drawing. "For this, I'm going to allow you to speak, but no other movements." It would almost be cute how concentrated she is on drawing for Brittany, but I can't find anything cute right now.

I think about grabbing onto the end of my shirt, it's a terrible nervous habit I know, but I go against it, seeing as how Santana would probably kill me. I watch as she takes another long drag from her vice, and taking in a deep breath, I begin. "So you're like, a full on lesbian now, right?" Okay, not as eloquent as I would have liked, but it's out.

Her reaction is slow, but it's there. She removes her hand from her drawing, staring at me through squinted eyes and a slightly tilted head. With two fingers, she removes the cig from her mouth and snaps, "That's what's on your mind? Fuck man, I was expecting something interesting. Not this whole clichéd 'When did you know?' bullshit."

In a small voice, I ask, "Do you mind?" Santana doesn't respond, she simply rolls her eyes and continues working on her portrait. "Is that a yes or a no?"

Exasperated, she huffs, "What do you think it means?"

I cross my arms for a moment, until she shoots me a look. "I don't know what it means because you're never one to talk about what's going on with you. I always end up assuming things about you because you never let anyone in."

"You're one to talk, _Quinnie_," she fires back. "I never know what's going on with you because half the time because your head is in a book and the other half of the time, you look so fucking spaced out that I can't tell if you're daydreaming or having some sort of internal battle."

The pencil nearly snaps in her hand, but she catches herself in time before the anger sets in. I don't know why every time I try and point out a character trait in someone, it gets spit back in my face ten times worse. I guess I can only see flaws in others that I have in myself. I must recognize it.

An almost inaudible, "Yes" falls from her lips after a few minutes of silence. She continues drawing, but doesn't take as many glances in my direction for reference anymore. "I don't really like labels, but the answer to your question is yes."

I readjust my posture when she gestures with her fingers for me to sit up straighter, and I carefully order the words in my head. "Was it always different for you when you were with guys than when you were with," I want to say Brittany, because I'm pretty sure Brittany's the only female she's ever been with, but I remember, there was a time not so long ago when we were strangers to one another. "girls?"

Santana takes another long drag, but I can tell this time that it's out of nervousness. When she blows the smoke out of her lips, she inhales deeply, as if it's giving her the courage she needs to start. "When I first started having sex with guys, I thought it was normal not to feel much. I thought that the more sex I had, the more I would enjoy it. Didn't exactly pan out that way," she licks her lips, and bites down as if she was going to stop, but she didn't. "I learned what gets guys off, learned their secrets, learned their tricks, but it was nothing spectacular for me. Only guys who I frequented, like Puck, could get me satisfied in some way. The rest was just for show."

"The first time I had sex with her, it was different. I felt more in those first few, minutes than I did with any of them," she takes another drag, but doesn't take as long to respond this time. "I was so scared of how much I felt I think I actually started having more sex with guys after that, but it didn't change a thing. I went back to those few that knew me well enough just so that I could cling onto the fact that I felt _something_."

She runs a hand through hair and blows smoke out of her nose after taking another drag. "I like sex, make no mistakes about that. And maybe it makes me a bad lesbian to like having sex with the few guys that can actually get me off, but that does not change how I feel when I'm with her. The one thing Miss Holliday taught me before she went batshit insane and started dating Schuester is that 'it's not about who you're attracted to ultimately, it's about who you fall in love with.'" Her demeanor is more tense than it was when she began, but then again, so is mine. "So to answer your question with a long fucking answer that you didn't ask for: Yes, it has always felt different from when I'm with guys than when I'm with her."

I want to ask her why she won't answer me with "girls" instead of just "her", but I guess she just isn't comfortable enough yet. The ash from Santana's cigarette falls to the carpet underneath her, and she leans over to put the rest of it out on the ashtray on a nearby table. She blows through her lips before placing her hand on her hips and staring me in the eye. "I'm gonna need something stronger than that if we're going to continue this conversation." I guess it got interesting enough.

Santana goes into the drawer under her vanity and pulls out a small wooden box. My vision is obscured from whatever she's doing because of her back, but she turns around and places a small, hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth.

"Is that pot?" Jesus Christ in Heaven, the girl is a drug addict. "Santana put that out!"

She brings her eyebrows together in frustration and lights the end anyway. "Calm down Q, it's just to loosen the nerves. And what is it with you white kids calling it 'pot'? It's weed. A joint. Marijuana. Get with the times."

I ignore her, and keep my eyes glued to the thing in her mouth, watching how when she exhales, the smoke mingles and accumulate with the leftover cigarette smoke above her head. She holds it out to me, as if she's telling me it's alright to try something new. After my dream, I'm really not interested in trying anything new. "I hope you didn't get Brittany to start smoking that stuff," I say with annoyance.

A laugh escapes her, and the joint nearly falls out her mouth as she resumes drawing. "Would you believe me if I told you Brittany was the one who got me into it?"

My slack jawed expression is enough to convey my disbelief. I know Brittany isn't as innocent as people assume, she's slept with more guys than I could keep count of, but drugs. I never figured Brittany as the type. Maybe that's why she seems so out of it most of the time…

She makes a noise with her teeth. "She is Dutch, you know."

"That's just prejudice."

"Maybe," she laughs again, "but it's the truth." With what looks like a new found strength, Santana's hand swipes across the page with purpose. After a few minutes of only hearing her breathing and her pencil when it comes in contact with the paper, she says, "You can tell me whatever else you wanted to talk about when you're ready. I know there's more."

When I'm ready. Her eyes don't even lift off the paper to look at me, but her words reach me in a way that she can't even imagine. I don't think I've ever waited to do something until I was "ready". Everything I've done was according to someone else's time, never on my own. Whether I was running on my father's time, or Coach Sylvester's time or even the baby's time, it was never on _my_ time. To have Santana let me know that I am in control of how things are done in my own life, not someone else, makes me grateful.

It gives me the courage to start.

"I had, uhm, I had a dream about someone. A _dream_ dream about someone," her eyes glance over at me briefly before going back to her portrait. "I guess I'm just confused about it. And about what it could mean."

I can tell Santana's trying really hard not to roll her eyes at my comment by the way she's biting down on her lip, but she simply shakes her head. "You're 17 years old, Quinn. I'm sure that you've had _dream_ dreams about people before and it didn't mean a thing. Look at me: I've had a sex dream about a shrub before. Figure that one out," I let out an obnoxiously loud laugh, _I wonder if you can get second-hand high like second-hand smoke, _and when my posture breaks, Santana doesn't even say anything. "Hell, I've even had a sex dream about Wheezy- but don't tell her I told you that." I'm pretty sure you can get second-hand high by the exaggerated reaction I give her. She shrugs dramatically, "It was during the _Rocky Horror_ performance, alright. You saw that Dr. Frank n Furter outfit. Girl looked fly."

My vision is blurry from the tears forming and I double over from laughter, coughing a bit from the smoke.

"So how was she?"

"Who?" I ask, trying to take as many large breaths as I can. The smoke is starting to constrict my lungs and I'm having a hard time breathing and laughing at the same time.

"Rachel."

The laughter coming from my throat has stopped completely, just as her hand stops moving across the paper. She's staring at me with this 'know-it-all' expression and my lungs feel as though they're constricted by something other than smoke. Trying to sound as natural as possible I ask, "Why do you think it's Rachel?"

Santana arches an eyebrow as a smile forms. "Because it's written all over your face." She takes her thumb and slides it across the paper. "And besides, I doubt you would be here if you had a dream about anyone else. So tell me," she pauses and licks her lips, "how was that Berry Juice."

I wrinkle my nose at her candor. "You're disgusting."

"You dreamt about her, not me."

My hands find the end of my shirt, and tug on it roughly. I guess there really is no point in lying to her now. Santana has a way of reading what makes people tick, so knowing her, she probably knew the moment I walked in. I sigh, shrugging my shoulders as well. "It wasn't even like that. We didn't even really have sex. It kind of just…I don't know." Explaining that I basically humped the shit out of Rachel's leg until I came undone is not something I'm ready to do, so I stop. Sucking in a breath, I continue, "I didn't plan on it happening. It kind of just did. It's not like I wanted it to happen either. I just don't know how to get it out of my mind."

Santana holds her hand in the air. "Stop it. You're having a Gay Panic and you didn't even do anything to the girl in real life. Chill." She holds out her joint. "Take a hit if you need to, it'll loosen you up."

I shake my head no, fidgeting once again with the end of my shirt. "I just don't know what to do."

"Well, I'm guessing that you enjoyed yourself in the dream, otherwise you wouldn't be so stressed about it."

I close my eyes and think about it for a moment. Reopening them, I said weakly, "I was scared the entire time. I guess, on some level I enjoyed it, but who wouldn't. You said it yourself that you dreamt about a shrub once and liked it."

She waves her finger at me emphatically. "Exactly! A sex dream about someone doesn't necessarily mean anything. I certainly didn't wanna gets my mack on with a bush afterwards. If you're confused about it, the thing you have to do is decide whether or not you want to act on it." Santana rests her pencil behind her left ear and folds her arms with a smile, waiting for my response.

This is Rachel Berry we're talking about. Rachel – fashion challenged, animal sweater wearing, boy obsessed, solo hogging- Berry. I don't even want to address the most obvious part of this- the thing that I have the most issue accepting, the thing that kept me up all night thumbing the cross around my neck. I have no problem with Santana and Brittany's relationship behind closed doors, but as far as myself? No. Not at all.

"Seeing as how that's your 'thinking' face, I guess you're unsure." Santana's still in the same position, looking down at me with a smile. She takes another hit and removes the pencil from behind her ear. "That's for you to figure out anyway. You answer that on your own time."

If drinking makes her cry, then smoking pot must make her really sensitive to other people's needs. I've never seen her this nice unless she's doing something with Brittany. "I'm surprised you haven't made fun of me yet," I say with seriousness.

"The first time I had a dream about a girl I didn't have anyone to talk to. Figured I should help you out." I think she's surprised herself with that answer just as much as she surprised me by the look on her face. She shakes her head a few times and starts drawing again, squinting her eyes in concentration. "Besides, the 'making fun' of you part will come when you try and sleep with her. I would _kill_ to see how nervous you are beforehand, Fabray."

I grab a pillow from off her bed and throw it at her, harder than I should, but softer than I intended. It hits the side of her head, ruffling her hair a bit, before falling to the floor beside the easel. It takes her a moment to realize what happened, I blame her lack of deflection on the pot, but she picks up the pillow with a smile and tosses it on the bed. Slowly, I walk over to her station and look at her work.

It's not what I was expecting. Unfortunately, in the worst way possible. The dimensions, and proportions, of my head are completely off. I understand that the human face lacks perfect symmetry, but I got this nose made for me and I know it's perfectly symmetrical. Santana's managed to make my nose look like a Picasso piece- and not in the edgy sort of way. The only thing she managed to get right were the eyes. The shape and contour of my eyes in the photo is uncanny.

"I suck at drawing," she says with a laugh.

"Yeah," I draw out, "but the eyes look great."

She tosses the pencil to the ground, along with the discarded portraits, and puts out her joint. "I should have asked you. You did draw all those 'oh so porno photos' of Rachel in the bathroom."

I roll my eyes as Santana grabs my arm and pulls me towards the bed. With a _thump!_, we both lie down at the head of the bed; Me, staring up at her ceiling, and her lying on her stomach. Her body starts to sag beside me, and I know sleep is coming soon for her.

As long as I've known Santana, I don't think I've ever shared her bed with her before. Every sleepover we had, we each slept on the floor in separate sleeping bags. I thought it rude of her as a child to have such a rule when her bed could clearly fit three, but knowing what I know now, I can see why she would be cautious. Not having anyone to talk to about girls, coupled with the fact that your best friend whom you were obviously crushing on could make sharing a bed uncomfortable. I move closer to her, trying to convey my gratitude to her that she has allowed me to share her space.

Quietly, so quietly that part of me wishes she wouldn't hear me, I ask, "What if I do end up liking Rachel?"

Her head rolls to the side, allowing me to see her face, and mumbles into the pillow. "Then you take her to Breadstix, compliment her on her loud and obnoxious singing voice and kiss her goodnight at the end of it." I wonder if the 'it' she's referring to is a 'date', but I don't question it. I'm not ready for that anyway. Santana's head moves again, until it's resting on my shoulder. "Just do what feels right, Q, and fuck the rest."

"You make it sound so easy."

It takes her a while to respond, and I think that she's fallen asleep on me, until she says, "It isn't. But you've got me, and Britt, if it counts for something."

Without saying anything, I rest my head on top of hers and I finally start to fall asleep, thinking that it does.

* * *

><p>"Sweetie, look at all this stuff!" Mother comes bargaining into my room with a box overflowing with junk, interrupting the zen I had flowing through my body. I've been home for about two hours, after successfully falling asleep at Santana's house and a quick 'munchie run' to the local 7-11 afterwards. I was surprised to find my mother's car still in the driveway, she'd normally be at work by now, but when I didn't see her once I got inside, I curled up with a book. I was finally getting halfway through <em>The Education of Henry Adams<em> when Mother came barreling in, interrupting my thoughts.

"What is all that?" I ask as she starts unloading old photo albums, baby clothes and other useless crap from our past clutter up my neatly fixed bed.

"I was in the attic, looking at all this stuff from before the move, and I just had to bring it back to life. Some of this stuff I haven't seen in years!" There's so much nostalgia in her puffy, red eyes its sickening. I can't tell if she's been crying or…drinking.

"Mom why are you home? You weren't fired, were you?" My hand reaches out for hers, stilling her actions as she reaches for something in the box. She waves me off, but not before squeezing my hand, and continues pulling stuff out.

"Heaven's no. I just had a day off and decided to clean up a little. I started cleaning the attic and got sidetracked as you can see." Mother pulls out a bronze plated plaque and wipes over it with her hand. "Oh, this is Melanie's award from her Speech Class." Mother runs her fingers longingly over the façade and places it on the bed beside me. "Took her years to get rid of that lisp. I always found it adorable, but as she put it, 'You can't be a future Miss America with a speech impediment'." Mother's reference to Melanie's childhood brings back memories of her spending hours in front of her mirror, trying to speak without her lisp. Although she never actually went out for Miss America like she wanted, she did spend lots of time in class working on freeing herself from what she saw as an 'imperfection'. I may have been young, but her one little 'imperfection' seemed like nothing compared to all of mine.

When Mother picks up a case from the box, I instantly pull my knees to my chest, knowing what's inside. She opens it carefully and her eyes light up, "Look Quinnie, your old glasses!"

She takes the large brown frames out of their home and holds them over her eyes. When Zizes decided to expose Lucy Q to the World, seeing those glasses on a poster caused fear to bubble up inside me in a way I've never known. Seeing them in real life is like reliving those years all over again. My mind is overrun with images of what I would look like now: the acne, the brown hair, the _nose_. There's something building up in my stomach as I think about the bite marks on the tips of the frames from years of battling with my nerves.

Mother takes the glasses from in front of her eyes and inches them towards my own. With a clenched jaw and the muscles in my cheek twitching, I slap the glasses out of her hand and across the floor before she even has time to realize what happened.

"Those are Lucy's glasses, not mine." There's so much malice dripping from my voice that I don't even try to mask my anger. She's staring at me, openmouthed, through squinted eyes with an arched eyebrow. Her eyes gravitate towards the discarded glasses on the floor, then back to me, somehow with her eyebrow even higher on her face. I see where I get it from.

A humorless chuckle escapes her lips. It's the kind of chuckle that causes her head to tilt back briefly before she clicks her teeth at me. The pupils of her blue eyes, which seem to have darkened, contract when she says, "I don't know what the hell that was…but I'm going to ignore it because I'm in a good mood."

I watch her stand and repack the box, putting away all the memories of our past back where they belong. My brow is low and furrowed the entire time with my chin resting on my knees and arms wrapped tightly around my legs. Mother picks up the glasses case, and tosses it towards my feet, glaring at me while she does so. I should say sorry. I probably should say sorry.

She lifts the box, shoving the remaining items inside and walks towards my door. Before she is completely through the doorway, she turns and looks at me. "When you want to act like a normal human being again, I'll be in the attic. _Lucy_."

Mother punctuates the last word with so much force that I'm glad I didn't say a thing to her. More importantly, I'm glad my arms are wrapped around my body, instead of at my sides. They're in a position I can control, and I uncurl my fists (I didn't even know they were curled to begin with) and dig the nails into my calves. It keeps me grounded. Keeps me from throwing the closest thing I can get my hands on out the window.

That box, along with the rest of the boxes in that attic, is filled with a former life that I never want to revisit. A former life where I when I couldn't live up to my father's standards, a former life where she drank too much too often and a former life where I was the center of all the negative attention in the Fabray Household. That attic is where they belong, and bringing them 'back to life' isn't going to do anyone any good.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I take one look at the photo on the screen and pick it up.

"Tell me something good," I say into the receiver. After everything I've been through today, I need a pick-me-up.

Rachel doesn't respond instantly and I can hear the static on her end of the phone.

"_Tell me that you love me_, _yeah."_

"What?" I practically scream into the receiver. "What the hell was that?"

"Well, Quinn, I know that you are a fan of Funk music from last year's Funk assignment in Glee Club, and I thought you were singing the words to the classic song by Rufus and Chaka Kahn. It would be presumptions of me to assume that the song wouldn't be in your musical repertoire and I thought you were initiating an impromptu duet of some sort." I can't believe this is what goes through her mind on a daily basis. "I take it by your silence that, that was not the case."

I burst out into a fit of laughter that causes tears to sting my eyes. It takes a few seconds, but Rachel begins to join in on the other side of the phone, her chuckles blending with mine. "That was probably the worst or greatest thing you've ever said." I'm surprised I'm able to say that without stopping for more air.

"Why thank you," she says with through her laughter. "It may not have been one of my finer moments, but I suppose it was funny nonetheless."

"Believe me, it was needed." I get out the bed and retrieve the discarded glasses on the floor.

"Is something wrong?"

_Only everything_, I think as I place the glasses back in their case and onto my bookshelf. "I just had a really trying day, that's all."

"Anything you want to talk about?" I can almost see Rachel sitting on her bed with that worried expression on her face: a lip between her teeth, with her eyebrows close together. It only reels me back into my current situation. That's the last thing I want to talk about with Rachel.

"I'd rather not…" I trail off. "Maybe another time."

"Alright," she says slowly. I can tell by the tone in her voice that she wants to ask more, but she seems to take it. "I suppose the normal 'How was your day?' isn't going to cut it, huh?"

"I suppose not."

"Aah, that's alright. The 'normal' is overrated anyway."

"Tell me about it," My eyes fall to the glasses case on the bookshelf. "Why don't you about you tell me about your day?"

Rachel proceeds to tell me about her day, filled with a day at the park with her fathers and Vegan ice cream and I listen intently, all the while the images of Lucy Q slowly fading from my mind.

* * *

><p>The book that Quinn reads is the autobiography of Henry Adams, aptly titled, "The Education of Henry Adams". The song that Rachel began to sing to Quinn is "Tell Me Something Good" by Rufus and Chaka Khan. I had honestly forgotten that <em>Glee<em> did it when I wrote this, so it's probably familiar to many of you who have never heard the original.

The title of this chapter is inspired by "Of Smoke and Fog" by Cloudkicker.


	7. What Is Impossible to Know

**Author's Note:** Again, I want to thank you all for the kind words and positive reception of this story. In honor of the Glee Movie, which I just saw, here is chapter 7.

* * *

><p>I don't really know how I end up on her block, but I keep running and eventually come to a halt when I find myself in front of her house. Panting, I place my hands on my hips and try to breathe as evenly as possible with a heaving chest. A simple morning jog turned into me running as far away from my problems as my legs could take me, not even caring enough to stop when they began to burn from overexertion. I ran without purpose, except to get away from the events of the last few days, and amazingly, Cheerios Quinn kicked back. Even though the fire in my thighs didn't let up, I found it easier to continue going further than I had before. Somehow, I think as I turn around to look around at her house, I ended up closer to my problems than I planned.<p>

Talking on the phone with Rachel proved to be less nerve wracking than I originally thought it would be, but that doesn't ease my mind. I slide the back of my hand across my brow to wipe away a few drops of sweat and bring that hand to the back of my neck once I'm done. After I hung up the phone with Rachel, going to sleep was a challenge. Again. Sleeping beside Santana gave me comfort that I wasn't alone with my musings, but being by myself in my bed where it all began in the first place gave me a nervousness that I couldn't shake. The fear of just thinking about Rachel created a rumbling low in my stomach that made me nauseous to the point where I flew to the bathroom every hour. Although nothing happened, other than gagging while my arms shakily gripped the porcelain lid of the toilet, it still shook me enough to only sleep in fifteen minute intervals. Going for a run seemed like the only release.

It shouldn't be this way. It's _Rachel_, for God Sakes. No matter how often I repeat her name in my head, my feelings haven't been able to come up with a consensus. One minute, I'm thinking about the friend that I've spent hours with listening to music and the next, I'm wondering what it would be like to actually have her in my bed. I push a hand through my hair and blow out heavily though my nose at the mere thought of me actually having…feelings for her. I mean, she's my friend. A friend who I've grown unusually close to over the past few weeks, but everyone has those type of friends. Just because you hang out with someone every day and share things with them that you haven't told other people doesn't mean you want to jump their bones in any way shape or form. That's what friends are for. It doesn't mean you have feelings for them more than a friend, right?

Right?

"I'm beginning to think you have an obsession with showing up at my house in the early morning hours," Her voice breaks my concentration, and I whip around to see Rachel in her doorstep wearing a pair of shorts and an undershirt. With the towel that's draped around her neck, she dabs at a few beads of sweat at her temple and lifts her hand to look at her watch. "At least it's not 6:30."

She walks down the few, short steps until she is standing beside me, leaning over to nudge me on the shoulder. My heavy breathing is increasing and I step away from her trying to seem as natural as possible. I know if I ignore her altogether and run home, it would only make the situation worse, but standing here now, with Rachel's shirt clinging to her chest due to perspiration, running away seems like a better option. I bring my eyes up to her smile and temporarily shut down at the mere thought of what those lips were doing to me in my dream a few nights ago.

I shake my head to rid my thoughts of Rachel's mouth on mine and smile back. This is ridiculous; Santana was right. I haven't had many sex dreams about people, but in the few that I have had, it didn't mean anything really. The only person that I've ever had a sex dream about that meant something was Puckerman and that didn't turn out well, seeing as how I ended up cheating on my boyfriend, pregnant and an outcast. If there's anything that I learned from that experience, it's that pursuing something where there may be a small amount of feelings involved ends in disaster.

"How did you know I was out here?" I ask, moving my hands to my hips.

Rachel wipes away a few more beads of sweat trickling down her neck before answering. "I hopped off the elliptical and saw a familiar crop of blonde hair outside my window." She tilts her head back and points to the stairs. I catch her drift and we walk in silence until we are seated on the front step. "I won't say I'm not surprised that you're here, but seeing as how you're making a habit of coming to my house in the mornings, I'll make you a key so you don't have to wait outside anymore."

I push her knee playfully, suddenly feeling a lot lighter than I began. I didn't know how much my nerves were weighing down on me until I let go of my thoughts. I exhale the last of my fears and respond with, "Funny."

Rachel begins to scuff her shoe around on the concrete when she turns to look at me. "Not that I mind, but is there any reason you're here so early? The last time you were, it ended up with us walking and talking through the park." She holds my gaze with a serious expression. "Anything you need to get off your chest?"

I mull over everything in my mind and rather than bring up my awkward dream, I lean back on my elbows and shake my head. "No reason. I went for a jog this morning and somewhere along my normal route, I ended up here."

Rachel places her hand on her chest and sits up straighter. "My my, Miss Quinn Fabray, are you telling me that you came all this way just to see lil' ol' me?" she says with a mock-southern accent.

My arm comes in contact with hers jokingly. "You think you're real funny this morning, don't you?"

"I have my moments," Rachel leans back on her elbows until she is side by side with me. "And by the way, so much for you not being 'active'. A jog from your house to mine must have been pretty intense."

Up until that point, I had actually forgotten about the burning sensation in my legs, but now that I'm reminded, I can feel a slight stinging pain in them. It's not nearly as bad as it was a few days ago, but its there. "It wasn't that bad," I say, running my hands over my legs. Rachel takes the towel that was around her neck, folds it and places it beside her on the step. "How was your workout?"

"It was fine. Cut short because of a certain someone," she jabs, "but good nonetheless." Rachel moves closer to me on the stairs, and loops her arm around mine. Once again, I ignore the way my ears heat up when she laces our fingers together. I suppose its residual nervousness from earlier. We sit in silence, watching the sun rise higher in the sky and looking at the occasional car that rolls by.

As we sit here, arms looped and fingers laced on her stoop, my mind begins to wander back to my dream. All of my anxiety about what our friendship would be like after my dream seems to have dissipated. I didn't even think I would be able to share the same space with her for fear of what the dream could mean, but sitting here now, I realize how stupid it all seemed. Rachel is my friend. She has been a better friend to me than I deserve, and I'm not going to do anything to mess that up.

"Rachel, Honey, I'm running a little late this morning, but I'll be home—oh hi Quinn." Hiram's voice from behind causes us to lean forward as he opens the door and walks down the stairs beside us. He's holding a bag with one hand and with his empty one, he pushes his glasses further along the bridge of his nose, eying our laced fingers. Even though his flustered facial expression doesn't change much when he looks down at our hands, I untangle myself from Rachel and sit up straighter. "Nice to see you again," he finishes.

"Nice to see you too, Mr. Berry."

"I see your hair is still the same color," he fixes his bag over his shoulder, fumbling with his car keys as he pulls them out of his pocket. There are only fragments of phrases floating around in my head, so I settle on a "Hmm" sound to acknowledge his joke.

He leans down and kisses Rachel on her forehead through her bangs. "Lee is already gone and I'll be home later. Have a good day, Sweetie." He leans up and waves at me. "You too Quinn."

True to my new found awkward nature, I send him a wave, and mumble something incomprehensible as he gets in his car and drives off. Smooth Fabray, really smooth. I run a hand down the side of my face, trying to hide the flush making its way across my features. As if thinking of his daughter inappropriately wasn't bad enough, I pretty much make a fool out of myself around him.

"You don't have to be nervous around my Dad, you know," I hadn't even realized when Rachel moved closer to me, but there really is no such thing as 'personal space' as she leans over to talk directly into my ear. "I can tell you're absolutely mortified right now, but there's no need to worry. My father likes you." She moves her hand to my knee and says the next thing so quietly it almost sounds as though she hadn't meant to say it at all. "How could he not."

At her admission, I look over at her to see her eyes at the ground, moving her foot against the concrete once more. There's something about the way her eyes skirt across the floor, as if she is intentionally avoiding my gaze, coupled with the increase in color to her cheeks that causes me to lose my train of thought. I don't know why, but I have to resist the urge to place my hand on top of hers that is holding my knee. A simple gesture, which we have done several times before over the course of our short friendship, feels like it would become something more in this new context. This strange new context, where we avoid each others glance and angle our heads away as if looking somewhere else would provide something to fill the silence due to the lack of conversation. I can only speak for myself, but by the way Rachel's staring at the hydrangeas that surround the outside of her house as if they hold an answer to some question she's battling with, I wonder if she feels this new context too.

I focus my attention away from Rachel and bring myself back inside my own head. I can't help but think that my attempts at not making things weird between Rachel and I have been for naught. It seemed so easy just a few minutes ago, but her father's interruption only brought back the images burned into the back of my skull. Fragments of the time we spent in her pool are now flashing in my head, bounding from one end of my mind to the other, only to collide with each other and explode in the center in a flurry of gold stars. It's pathetic how much one afternoon with her has such a hold on me. Almost as pathetic as no matter how badly I want the images to leave my mind, a small part of my subconscious wants them to stay right where they are.

"Do you want to come inside for a little while? I promised Kurt and Mercedes that I'd meet them later, but you're more than welcome to come inside and go out with us." she says after minutes of silence. Her eyes finally look up at mine and she stands, stretching her arms above her head. "We're going to head down to this new Vegan shop in the next town over. My idea, of course."

The smile that takes over her face at the Vegan shop is not only infectious, but perhaps the most adorable thing I've ever seen. Smiling, I push myself off the stairs and brush off my legs. "I'd love to come along with you guys, but I'm going to go home and shower first."

"Of course," she says, shaking her head. "How about I pick you up around ten? I could swing by your house and we could meet Kurt and Mercedes at the shop."

The idea of Rachel coming to my house makes the smile to fall off of my face immediately. Things at my house haven't been the same since I moved back in, and although my mother seems to have given up drinking (for the moment anyway), I'd rather not submit her to our somewhat strained relationship. I haven't spoken to her since last night's 'Lucy' incident and I don't know exactly where we stand right now.

I can tell by the way her smile falters that she's concerned about my lack of a response. I force the smile back on my face, and trying to sound as normal as possible, I ask "Um, how about I pick you up around noon?" Concern washes over her face so I continue, "I have an SUV, so I could pick up Kurt and Mercedes along the way. It would save time instead of having everyone come in their own separate car." I shrug, trying to add to my story.

Rachel looks at me for a moment, watching my expression to see if it will change, but she smiles timidly. "Around noon then," she says in acceptance. She picks up her towel, looking over at me from her bent position and proceeds to walk to her door. "See you later," is the last thing she says before she waves and closes the door behind her.

"See you later," I repeat, walking home with a smile tugging at my lips.

* * *

><p>"All I'm saying is that as a name, 'The New Directions' is a joke in and of itself. We're practically inviting people to make fun of us."<p>

"But it's a lot less subtle than 'Oral Intensity'. That one doesn't even leave anything up to the imagination."

"That is why I try to e-nun-ci-ate whenever I have to introduce us. 'The McKinley High School New DI-rections'!"

"I personally have no problem with 'The New Directions.' It is somewhat comical, but also inspiring."

"Of course you wouldn't have an issue with 'Nude Erections'."

"I resent that Mercedes."

She responds by flicking a bit of whip cream off her straw onto Kurt's nose, splattering some of the confectionery on the lapel of his jacket. The gesture would have earned a long tirade about how expensive it cost with anyone else, but since it was Mercedes, Kurt simply dabs at it with a napkin and playfully smears the rest of it on Mercedes' nose. I watch with a smile as the pair continued their 'fight', sipping on my own drink every few seconds. Beside me, Rachel ignores their exchange and continues on,

"I have spoken with Mr. Schuester on several occasions about changing our name, but every attempt has been futile. He usually ignores me or excuses himself to Mrs. Pillsbury's office." Kurt and Mercedes reluctantly pull their attention back to Rachel when she unconsciously begins wrapping on the table with her nails. "And who knows what goes on in there."

"I think Mr. Schuester has more important things to worry about than our name, Rachel," Kurt replies, taking a generous sip of his Mocha. "Like actually having an original song prepared before we take on the competition."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Mercedes groans while pushing her near empty cup off to the side. "That trophy was so close to being ours and it slipped right through our fingers."

Rachel almost instantly becomes rigid beside me in the booth, her eyes falling to the small gap between the table and the floor. I remove my left hand from the table where it was playing with a stray packet of sugar and place it atop her knee, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"You know it's not your fault, right," I breathe into her ear. Her eyes stay on the floor, but she does turn her head slightly, acknowledging my words. "If Schuester had actually helped us with the song writing beforehand, none of that would have happened. And the songs you came up with were great."

"No one blames you Rachel. It was passionate and spur of the moment," Kurt offers. "Just don't let it happen again. This is our final year and a trophy would look great in my college dorm."

"Dream on, it's totally going in mine."

Rachel manages a small smile at their words and lifts her eyes up to meet mine. Small, tender fingers close around my hand that's still on her knee and she mouths, "Thank You", all the while keeping my gaze.

I don't know why, but that simple gesture from Rachel has rendered me speechless. She seems oblivious to how hard my heart begins hammering in my chest because I'm pretty sure the Barista at the other end of the shop can hear how loudly this thing is banging. I'm caught completely off guard; I was doing fine up until now. The drive home from Rachel's gave me time to readjust my thoughts, rationalize every single look or lingering touch that we've shared so far and once I came to the conclusion that my nerves were nothing more than leftover jitters from my conversation with Santana, everything was fine. _I_ was fine. Here and now however, with my hand lodged between Rachel's hand and her knee, and my heart trying its hardest to break free from its home in my chest, I know that I am far from fine.

Kurt, or maybe Mercedes, is talking. I can't really tell. My heartbeat is gradually increasing as Rachel's thumb begins trailing along the back of my hand, making lazy Figure 8's while she makes conversation. The air in the shop disappears as she shifts her legs underneath the table so that one of her calves drapes over mine ever so slightly, nesting her foot closer to me. The conversation seems to grow over the thumping of my heart, but I'm unable to concentrate on anything other than her body closely intertwined with mine out of everybody's view. Through some will power deep down that I didn't know I possessed, I pull my head up to look at her expression, to judge whether or not I'm the only one about to have a panic attack. Her appearance has changed drastically from her sullen one earlier and she's laughing at whatever the others are saying on the other side of the table. But still, she's unaware of the conflict raging inside my head.

I'm alone with this sinking felling in the pit of my chest. It's different from my usual one though. I still feel like escaping to the nearest secluded area to be with my thoughts, but feel also this push and pull that I've never experienced before. I want nothing more than to tear away from this table and drive home to the comforting solace of my bedroom, yet I also feel like running away from this table and dragging Rachel along with me. Pulling her by the hand that's rested on top of mine out the door and into the haven of my bedroom seems like a good idea. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny flicker of a memory from her pool surfaces amongst the conflicting thoughts. The feel of her wet skin sliding against mine becomes all too real as her high pitched giggles from that afternoon pervade any semblance of rational thought I had left. Finishing what we started in pool seems like a damned good idea— no. Our friendship is strictly that…a friendship. I'm certain friends don't want other friends in the way that I want her right now.

Wait. I want her. I _want_ Rachel Berry.

"Shit," escapes my lips, breathless and apprehensively. I hadn't actually meant for it to leave my thoughts, but once it's out, the sound of my heart is no longer the dominant sound in my ears. Their voices die down and the conversation ceases at my random admittance, and three pairs of eyes are upon me. Rachel's thumb stops making patterns on the back of my hand and I look over to Mercedes, who has a raised eyebrow.

"Riiight," Kurt says, shoving empty _Equal_ packets into his cup. "I'm going to grab another one for the road." He picks up Mercedes' empty cup beside him and stands. "Rachel, care to join me?"

She smiles, discretely untangling herself from me and stands up as best as she can. Still stunned at my own realization – which cannot possibly be _absolutely_ true - I move out of the booth to let her follow Kurt to the counter, while trying to regain any sense of composure I have left. Mercedes stands and walks over to me, her eyebrow still raised and I can already see her forming a question in her mind. Before she has a chance to say anything, I ask, which mostly ends up in me yelling, "Wanna go to the car?"

This time the Barista actually hears me because she rolls her eyes at my loud interjection before taking Kurt's order. I look to Mercedes, who extends her arm out as if to say, "After you", and I make my way out towards the exit, not bothering to look and she if she's following me. As I reach the door, my pocket vibrates:

'**Taste some of that Berry juice yet? ;)'**

'**Fuck off Santana'**

I do not need this right now. She responds as the sun hits my skin when I push open the door:

'**Wanky. I love it when u talk dirty'**

"This girl is going to be the death of me," I say as I put my phone back in my pocket. She may have shown her softer side yesterday, but that doesn't take away from how blunt she really is.

"If you're talking about Rachel, I think I can agree," Mercedes leans against the passenger side door of my car with her arms folded and a slight smirk on her face.

Sighing, I lean next to her, propping one foot up on the side of my car. "I was talking about Santana. I forget how frank she can be at times."

"I think Rachel would be more appropriate."

It's a stupid idea to feign ignorance with Mercedes, she knows me so well now I really can't get away with much around her, but I go ahead with it anyway. "What do you mean?"

She laughs, actually _laughs_ at me and moves until she is standing in front of me, blocking my view of the entrance to the shop. "Come on Quinn. After you completely _derped_ out of the conversation to stare at her for five minutes? Don't even act like that was nothing."

That was five whole minutes? I couldn't have lost track of that much time. It didn't seem like more than a few seconds. Mercedes' smile is gone and she's staring at me much more intently now, waiting for me to confront her words. I cross my arms over my chest in defiance and continue on with my charade. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You stared at her like how you stare at David Beckham whenever you see him in a magazine."

"David Beckham is one flawless human being…"

"And judging by your expression back in there, you think Rachel is too."

I don't even need to bring my eyes up from the position they've held on the ground to know what her face looks like. Silence passes between the two of us and I can't do anything other than cradle my head in my hands and blow into my palms. I think that hiding in my hands is probably the easiest solution to my problems.

"Again, I ask 'Why do they always come out to me?'"

I open my fingers so that I'm able to see her through the space between them. "I'm not…_gay_." I mumble, hoping the last word would somehow fade away on the way towards her. My hands fall from my face and I fist the ends of my dress due to nervousness. "And neither is Rachel," I rush out.

"Santana said the same thing and look how that turned out. I mean, did you see her outfit during _Landslide_? Ignoring the fact that that was probably the gayest performance I've seen, other than every single time The Warblers perform, I don't know who she was trying to fool."

"Will you keep your voice down," I pull her closer to me, looking behind her to make sure that neither Rachel nor Kurt stepped out of the shop. When I don't see either of their figures near the door, I sigh and put on the best defensive face I can muster at the moment. "And I'm not gay."

"Who are you trying to tell that to, me or you?" Concern washes over Mercedes' face, wiping away every trace of sarcasm from her voice. She runs her hand along my arm a few times before speaking, "You know I wouldn't care, right? I personally just want to know how all this even started."

This is all happening way too fast. Within a span of two days, I've been questioning everything I know about myself with relation to Rachel, and it all ends with a big question mark. That heaving feeling in the pit of my stomach is back and my diaphragm is slowly starting to thrust up and down uncontrollably. I feel sick.

I can feel the red draining from my face, only to be replaced by what is probably the palest green color imaginable. The sunlight is doing nothing against my skin and goose bumps are rising on my arms, reminding me of how cold and bitter I am on the inside. The sudden realization that I actually have feelings for the one girl I sought out to make her life a living hell pushes me over the edge and off the cliff of sanity. There's a dull roar forming in the back of my head and the thoughts are pounding their way to the front, barreling through any rationalizations about my feelings towards Rachel that I made. Before I know it, I'm pushing Mercedes' arm off of me and trying to make my way around to the other side of the car.

She has her hands on both of my shoulders before I even make it off the curb.

"Don't go all distant on me, Quinn, I know that look," she digs her nails into my skin to keep me in place.

"Let go of me Mercedes," my voice comes out more forceful than I intended, but I guess I have the pounding headache to blame. She pushes me back so I'm nearly sitting on the hood of the car, keeping me there so I can't move. "Let me go."

"Maybe you can pull that Angry Quinn crap with everybody else, but you know it's not gonna fly with me," she removes her hands from her sides, but makes no move to step aside and let me pass. Even if she does, I know she would catch me before I even thought about moving. "Now, if you don't want to talk about what's going on between the two of you right now, that's fine, but eventually were gonna talk about what 'this' is."

"I don't even know what 'this' is. I don't even know if there is a 'this'!" I didn't even realize that I started yelling, but it's not directed at Mercedes. It's directed at myself and my unruly emotions that won't stop long enough for me to deal with them, I bring a hand to my face once more, cradling my skull to hopefully keep it from throbbing. With my eyes closed, I go on, "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

An arm snakes around my shoulders and I can feel Mercedes move to my side, pushing her body against mine, wrapping me in her arms. I sag against her body, allowing myself to be held by someone other than Rachel, and breathe in deeply. She smells like home and understanding.

When we pull away, she grabs my hand and holds it tightly.

Mercedes leans in close to my ear and says, "To be honest, I'm not exactly surprised. Kurt and I have been taking bets on how long it would take for you to like her because we kinda saw it coming."

"What?" I push away from her, keeping my distance as she shrugs her shoulders. What the hell. "What do you mean you 'saw it coming'?"

"The duet, the pictures of her on the bathroom stall," What? The duet was _her_ idea. The pictures were my… my passive aggressive backlash at her wanting my boyfriend. Or something like that. "And should I even mention Prom? I don't know who was eye fucking her more- you or Finn."

Oh God. She's right.

"You're a walking Repressed Catholic Girl cliché."

I open my mouth to say something, but the bell from the café behind us rings signaling that someone has just exited the shop. Kurt and Rachel come out in unison, both with coffee in their hands.

"Sorry that took so long. They ran out of soy milk and had to go to the back and find some. Those crazy Vegans." Kurt walks over to Mercedes and hands her a cup, while Rachel walks to my side and extends one to me.

"I brought you another one," the smile on her face, that stretches from ear to ear, makes me want to run away and hug her at the same time. The current of conflicting emotions is steadily making its way through my body, but I try and push it down when I take the cup from her hand, halfway leaning towards her and halfway leaning away.

"Thank you," I respond, less charmingly than I hoped for. It comes out shakily and she squints her eyes slightly at my awkward body language, but continues to smile as she gets in the passenger's seat. Mercedes nudges me forward as she walks around the car and opens the door behind the driver. I follow her, avoiding eye contact with Rachel as much as possible, until I'm strapped in beside her.

My hand is resting on the center console, about to grab the stick boot when Kurt interrupts, "You can drop me off at Mercedes' house. My car is there, so I'll just leave from her place." Through the rear view mirror, I can see Mercedes nod in approval. She catches my gaze and quickly shifts her eyes from Rachel to myself, calling my attention to the girl at my side. Taking a long inhale, I turn my head to look at Rachel, who's staring at me with knitted eyebrows and concerned eyes. She raises her hand to capture mine in the console, but after what happened in the shop, contact with her proves to be too intimate and too much for me to handle right now.

I change from 'Park' to 'Drive' and grip the steering wheel so quickly that I wonder if everyone in the car got whiplash from how fast I drive down the street. "Will do, Kurt," I say as he fixes his hair in the seat behind Rachel, muttering something to Mercedes. He shoots Mercedes a wary look, but begins a conversation with her about some designer I've never heard of. I sneak one more glance back at Mercedes and she mouths 'Nice' to me in the mirror. Great, awkward Fabray never ceases to amaze me.

"Are you alright?" Rachel questions from beside me. "You've been acting strange all afternoon." Angling herself closer to me, she asks, "If this is still about my father I already told you, he likes you."

I catch a whiff of whatever perfume she has on, lavender I think, for the first time today and it immediately sends my body into alert. How haven't I noticed this before? Sitting up straighter, I put on the smile I've practiced in the mirror so many times and lie, "I'm fine Rachel. Nothing to worry about."

She smiles, not big or anything, but enough to let me know that she's going to leave me alone with my thoughts. For now at least. She leans back in her seat and enters the conversation with Kurt and Mercedes behind me, who are now talking about what songs would work well for great group numbers for Sectionals next year. I keep my eyes focused on the road, wondering where the hell this all began and wondering why it took me so long to believe it.

* * *

><p>It's insane to do what I'm doing right now, which is sitting on the floor and combing through every single notebook I own since Freshman year, but it's the only thing I can do. I scan each and every page of each and every notebook looking for something; some kind of symbol that can clue me into what may have started these…feelings. As if looking for a source can cure me of what I dub "Berry Syndrome" and give me back a piece of mind.<p>

Well, it's not like I had much to begin with.

With my dress pillowing around me, surrounded by everything from disregarded exams in Spanish class to notes that I wrote to Santana during Heath, I reach into the back of my closet and dig out the last few notebooks I've yet to look through. My hand falls on the familiar notebook that I used during AP History Sophomore year. Although I aced the class better than anyone else, it was also the book I used for most of my sketches. History comes naturally to me, so I spent half of the time paying attention to the teacher drone on about the Korean War and the other half of my time drawing whatever came to my mind.

"Sweetie, I'm headed off to work! See you tomorrow!" My mother's faint voice comes from down the stairs. Even though I could care less about anything other than the notebook in my hands right now, I'm happy she is at least ignoring my outburst from yesterday.

"Okay Mother!" I yell back absentmindedly, flipping to the back of the notebook where my 'creativity' lies. It starts out innocently enough, a few lambs here and there, and a duck I drew for Brittany one day in Math class to cheer her up. The memories of the days come back to me vividly, hitting each one of my senses so roughly as if it weren't a memory at all, but if I was actually reliving it. Soon, the sketches turn not so innocent, as _she_ becomes the subject of almost all of them.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I drew these, yet as they come back to me in full Technicolor as I began taking time to make the photos 'pop' as I called it, I can feel the emotions behind them. All jumbled and clustered my feelings were, much like they still are, about her are drawn so expressively on college ruled line paper. The indentations on the drawings of Rachel are much more poignant than they were on the sketches of farm animals and as I run my fingers over them, I can almost feel old Quinn again, sitting at the back of the class, boring holes into Rachel's head while simultaneously getting out my frustration through my pencil. Every slide and stroke of my pencil was done so precisely to capture her and there are faded eraser marks where I went over the page again and again to get it _just right_ only add to my clouded judgment about my feelings. Why would I care so much about a drawing of a person that I claimed hated for the better part of three years?

My hand stills when it comes across a drawing I drew in Rachel's presence in Glee club. The memory hits me so fast as the setting surrounds me instantly. Santana's muttering something about Rachel moving back to Israel and I laugh along with her because I'm supposed to. Really, my attention is on a disfigured drawing I'm doing of her. Rachel moves to sit in front of me and talks about that spy of a 'non boyfriend' of hers Jesse. She wants advice about sleeping with him. At the time, it was easy to mask my anger in pregnancy hormones, claiming her voice was making my baby sick, but as I look down at the drawing I did that day, it wasn't anger I was feeling.

It was jealousy. Surrounding the disfigured drawing I did of Rachel, there are about a dozen or so hearts of all different shapes and sizes strewn about the page. I don't even remember drawing those hearts, but here they are, staring back at me in all their glory, gloating at me because the secret was not really a secret at all. The hearts are mocking me, laughing from their place on the page because even before I could fully recognize the emotion, something inside me could and put it down in plain sight.

It's there. It's always been there. I've just been too close minded to see it.

* * *

><p>The episode that I refer to here is "The Power of Madonna" from Season 1. To quickly re-cap the scene, Rachel asks a few of the girls in Glee for advice on dating. Quinn is shown drawing an unflattering picture of Rachel where she draws several hearts around it.<p>

The title of this chapter is inspired by "What It Is Impossible Not to Know and What It Is No Longer Permissible To Believe in the United States" by Cloudkicker.


	8. La Memoire Reincarnee

Running seems to have taken the place of reading and counting the cracks in the sidewalk to clear my mind. The stunning revelation I had last night only added to my inability to focus and I spent the remainder of it ignoring phone calls from Mercedes and texts from Santana. For hours I sat in my closet violently flipping through sketches and drawings of Rachel from Freshman and Sophomore year, blocking out the outside world to relive each and every memory scribbled in the corner or drawn elaborately on its own separate page. I lost count of how many of them I did once the number exceeded fifty. It was well into the evening when I finally decided to end my maddening search for closure, only to sit in my chair and stare out at the moon for hours, hoping that somehow _'this too shall pass' _and wishing I'd be able to get a restful night's sleep again. As the sun began its red-orange appearance in the sky, my mind was still the same as the night before, so I did the only thing I knew how to do. I ran until I could no longer smell Rachel's perfume whenever I close my eyes or feel the way her hand skirts across mine in excitement during the opening credits of _Criminal Minds_.

It's practically criminal how my mind is constantly thinking about her. The hot water in my shower slapping against my skin is a reprieve from the constant drone of my mind, washing away the traces of her that are imprinted on me. Backing up against the tiled wall to allow the water to hit me at a 45° angle and slide off my body, I think about how horrible I've treated her throughout the years. Could every single insult have been a result of the fact that I actually care about her? Was every slushie tossed just a mask for some sort of… admiration? I never actually tossed a slushie at her, mostly one of the football or hockey players did my bidding because of some silent prayer they all had that I'd let them get past my chastity belt, but they were certainly came from me. I may have used a middle man, but the ice cold slap that she received every single day Freshman year was poured from my hand.

Maybe I knew all along. Maybe I told Puckerman to only hit her with Grape slushies because I watched her lick her lips before going to clean herself off. Maybe I put her at the bottom of the Glist because I didn't want anyone but me to catch a glimpse of what lies beneath those knee socks and checkered sweaters like I had so many times during PE. Deep down I bet the only reason I slapped her during Prom was the only way to get my frustration out without letting anyone else know. Or without letting myself know.

Wiping the water from my face with one hand, I turn the water off with the other, grab my towel and head to my room to dress. It's been a stressful couple of days and I allow myself to get lost in the process, taking my time to pull on every article of clothing with enough sluggishness that it not only makes my movements slow, but my roaming thoughts as well. Despite my penchant for wearing dresses, I step outside of my comfort zone and chose a pair of jeans to throw on and a light, long-sleeved t-shirt as a top. As much as I'd love to wear my usual attire, the idea of Rachel's skin coming in contact with mine is too close for comfort. I nearly had a panic attack from her touching my knee; I'm afraid of what would happen is another pool incident occurs.

After applying some light mascara and eye shadow, I walk downstairs towards the kitchen to find something for my dehydrated throat. Before I make it all the way through the den, my mother's slender figure curled into a corner of a couch catches my attention. Another late night I guess.

"Mom," I say after I've crossed the carpet to her side. "Mom, come on, let me get you into bed." I wrap her arm around my shoulder, slipping her pumps off as well, and lift her body as much as I can off the couch.

"Quinnie," she mumbles into my neck, "I must have fallen asleep on the couch again." Her body slumps against mine for a moment, but she pulls back up, understanding what I'm trying to do. Mother languidly slinks an arm around my waist for support and moves her feet with mine as we cross back across the carpet. "Thank you so much."

"It's no problem Mom," I grunt a little, trying to get her to move her feet up the stairs, but she gets the hang of it after a few tries. Slow, uncoordinated movements eventually turn into cautious steps up the stairs as I grip her waist with one arm and the banister with the other for support.

"What would I do without you?" Her knee bucks underneath her and we stumble on the step together until she regains her footing.

"My guess is that you would go clinically insane. Not to mention the fact that you'd also fall down the stairs right now." She does something that I haven't heard her direct to me in months. She laughs. Not the kind of laugh I hear from her bedroom when she's watching daytime talk shows or soap operas, but a genuine laugh.

"Who knew my daughter was such a joker," she jabs, ruffling my hair as I push open the door of her bedroom. When we make it to the edge of her bed, she loosens her grip around my neck and falls back onto the mattress. "Thank you so much, Sweetie. I really needed your help." I watch her attempt to pull the covers over her slight frame, but when she only makes it half way, I finish pulling them up for her, tucking the sides down to keep her warm. When her breathing evens and her head lolls to the side, indicating that she is asleep, I exit her room in silence, pulling the door shut with as little noise as possible.

That was probably one of the most intimate exchanges I've had with my mother since I moved back. Aside from preparing for my Prom, which we both seemed to enjoy, that was the closest I've been to her in a few years. I should be upset that we've allowed ourselves to become the type of mother/daughter combination that bonds over a few tired movements up a flight of stairs, but surprisingly, I'm okay with that. It could be worse. We've been there before.

I'm making my way back down towards the kitchen, when I hear the jingle of my phone from inside the room. I don't need to see her smiling face on my screen to know who it is.

"Good morning, Rachel." I try my hardest to sound like everything is as normal as it can be.

"Good morning Quinn. And what a lovely morning it is," her sarcasm comes out joyfully as I look out my window at the overcastted sky. Much like my mind, it's clouded over, only a few scattered rays of sunshine every few feet. "What time should I expect you today?"

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?" I joke, knowing full well that she's right. "What makes you think I'm coming over to see you?"

"Because it's the highlight of your day. Plus, it does get very lonely in this house all by myself. I could use some entertainment."

"Am I only here to entertain you?"

"You're here to do a lot of things; entertaining me is just one of them."

The small pop that goes off in my head was enough to send me into a downward spiral. Plummeting faster than I could keep up, it feels as though my brain has withered up and fallen into the dark pit in my chest where my heart should have been. At this moment in time, when the static is filling up the lack of coherent conversation on my end of the phone, I'm pretty sure my heart is lying somewhere near my Lanvin's by the _thump!_, _thump!_,_ thump_! coming from the floor. I'm almost positive that she's…flirting with me.

"So, now that we've got that settled, what time should I be expecting you?" She sounds so carefree. So totally, utterly and blissfully unaware of how her words have rendered me.

I sit down heavily on my bed, hunching over so that one elbow is rested on my knee and the other hand is running through my hair. Removing the hand from my hair, I pinch the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes close. I think if I can squeeze them enough, I can pretend that everything is alright. "Give me 30 minutes."

"Wonderful," I can hear her hands clap together, leading me to believe she has the phone crooked between her shoulder and her ear while she's walking around her house. Before she clicks off, in a voice low and unfamiliar, she says so clearly, "I'll be waiting."

* * *

><p>"I almost thought you weren't coming. It's been nearly an hour since we last spoke." Rachel's standing in her doorway with her arms crossed, an uncertain smile hanging on her face. She's right, it has been an hour since we spoke on the phone, but how am I supposed to explain that I sat in my car for more than thirty minutes staring out the window? It only takes me half an hour to get from her house to mine, but I had to pull myself together to face her.<p>

"Traffic," I lie, walking up to the door while gripping the ends of my sleeves to keep me from reaching out to her. Her posture loosens when I'm standing in front of her, but the hesitant smile is still on her lips. She's worried. Worried about this friendship, and the odd behavior I've taken on in the last few days. Whenever I got this odd in previous years, a new drawing on the bathroom stall would surface, or a new inventive nickname would pop up right before first period Spanish. Rachel knows that's how I used to operate and I can see the gears turning in her head, wondering if that is what's about to happen now. I'm painfully, almost regrettably, aware of my less than platonic feelings towards her, but I don't want that to interfere with what we have. Whatever it is. "It took me longer than I expected."

"You look different today," she says slowly, taking in my appearance. Her eyes run over my face before falling down to examine the rest of my body.

"Different how?" I ask breathlessly when she steps closer towards me.

"For starters you're wearing jeans. I never see you wear jeans except for group performances with Glee Club. And sneakers." The hand she brings towards my face looks as though it's moving in slow motion, coming to rest on my chin briefly before she tugs my head down to get a closer look in my eyes. I swear if she makes a comment on the color of my eyes, I may just loose it— "You're wearing makeup." Something seems to snap behind her eyes as she gazes up at me with an expression I've never seen before. "What's the special occasion?"

As soon as her hands fall from my face, my eyes begin skirting across the ground, searching for something to get out of this situation. She can undoubtedly _feel_ the heat radiating off my body by now. I look back into her eyes to find that they're still locked on mine, awaiting an answer. In a whisper, I let out, "I just wanted to feel pretty, I guess."

Rachel's somehow gotten closer, I don't know exactly when, but I swear I can see her pupils dilate as a slow smile spreads its way across her face. I can see a slither of teeth in the beginning, but soon I can see her whole set as she leans impossibly further into me. She lifts her hand again, but doesn't stop once she reaches my chin, and takes her time running over my cheek and up my face until her hand is lost in my hair. "You're always pretty, Quinn. The prettiest girl I've ever met." Her hand travels to the back of my head, fingers still buried in my hair, before she lets it slide down my neck, grazing my ear slightly and subsequently down my arm until it's at her side. "Even if you're hair is getting a little shaggy."

I don't even know if there is a word to properly describe the feeling of how hard my heart is hammering in my chest. My stomach is already churning and I can feel my coffee from this morning tossing back and forth violently inside me. I bite down on my lip as all logical thought leaves my mind, because hell if I know how to deal with this now, and the first thing that flies out my mouth is, "Who are you, Ramona Flowers?"

She takes a step back and raises her eyebrows. "Um…who?"

"_Scott Pilgrim vs. The World_. The comic that was turned into a movie." Rachel just stares at me with a bemused expression on her face. "The main character Scott had shaggy hair and his girlfriend, Ramona, mentioned it once or twice."

Scott Pilgrim. _Scott-freaking-Pilgrim_? Am I Sam or something? Quoting obscure comic book references to girls when I'm nervous. Oh, we were a match made in heaven; athletic school kids with short, shaggy blond hair and absolutely no social skills what so ever.

Rachel's smile turns into a grin as she raises an arm and rests it on the pane of the door. "Are you implying that I'm your girlfriend, Quinn?"

Girlfriend? I can barely wrap my mind around crush, let alone girlfriend. "No, I was- the hair comment- the comic book had the same—"

"I'm kidding." Her arm slaps me in the side, bringing me out of my stupor. "Lighten up. And by the way, I didn't even know you were into graphic novels. I learn something more and more about you every day." She says the last bit as she tugs on the sleeve of my shirt, pulling me inside her house. I have a feeling today's going to be a long day.

* * *

><p>"Get slim in six weeks with <em>Slim Fast<em>—"

"I saw 'em, grab Tony by the foot and I yelled at 'em, "Oy! Bigfoot, what're ya doin—"

"When we arrived he had already flushed his kilo down the toilet, but we were—"

"I can't believe I gave the wrong girl the rose—"

"They bake cookies by day, but they really heat up at night. G-string grandmas, today on Sick, Sad World—"

"We killed our Probation Worker!"

"Wait, go back!" I grab the remote from Rachel, who'd been flipping the channels at random since I got inside, when I hear something I haven't heard in years. Switching the channel back to the source, I see the slow-moving cartoon sisters that basically made up my childhood. Despite the fact that I share a name with one, it was the older, quick witted sister that I that pretty much gave me an idol at a young age. I can't even help the toothy grin that comes over my face.

"What is this?" Rachel asks, looking at the two sisters on the television negotiate the arrangements of a baby-sitting job.

"_Daria_," I breathe out. "I haven't seen this in a long time." Years of being left on my own because of my lack of friends left me with a lot of free time. When I wasn't off doing school work or reading, I found comfort in someone almost as out casted as I was. Maybe even worse. She may have only been a cartoon, but I had more in common with her than I did with anyone in my school. As if I were a child once again, I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, forming my own little cocoon. "This was Lucy's favorite show."

I'm so wrapped up in the show that I hardly hear Rachel's, "What did you say?"

"Hmm," I turn to her, sneaking glances at my heroine on television, but trying to give Rachel my full attention. She's got that look in her eyes that tell me she's searching again and I try and match her intensity, holding her gaze for as long as I can. Daria's voice in the background begins to fade as the sound in my ears cease. It's like I have tunnel vision looking into her eyes and the only thing I can see are her eyes looking deeper into me than I like. It's too much for me to hold onto, and avert my eyes away, looking at my knees between my arms.

"Nothing," she says after a while. "Nothing at all." She keeps her distance on the couch, but I can feel her looking at me throughout the episode. Midway through the commercial break, when the winds pick up outside and the rain begins to pour heavily on the windows, she goes to grab a blanket. She sits back down much closer to me than she was before and places it over the both of us. She motions for me to extend my legs out over the couch and once I do so, with great hesitation, she sits beside me with her legs extended as well. It's almost like we're spooning, only sitting up, and if it weren't for Daria's monotonous voice in the background to concentrate on, I'm almost certain this would be too close for comfort. Especially when she nuzzles her head underneath my chin.

Four episodes of _Daria_ later, and two episodes of _Criminal Minds_ for Rachel, that thing called 'sleep' is catching up with me fast. I'm trying my hardest not to be rude and yawn right in her ear, but even the yells of the investigative team can keep me awake long enough to see the killer get caught.

"Someone's tired," Rachel notes in front of me.

"So-sorry," I yawn, pushing my head down on the arm of her couch. "I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately."

"Why," she asks out of general curiosity.

My body goes rigid for a few seconds before I sink back down into the couch. Too tired to really react, but not tired enough to give myself away, I answer, "I've just had a lot on my mind."

I can feel her head nod against my chest, but my eyes are pretty much glazed over as the Sandman greets me with a dash of his powder.

"It's alright, go to sleep," Rachel's whispers sound like the sweetest lullaby I've ever heard as they guide me further into the darkness. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." The last thing I feel before I hit the bottom is her fingers encircling my wrist, bringing my arm over her waist and her lips placing a kiss on my hand.

* * *

><p>There's darkness and silence and emptiness. The darkness because I have yet to open my eyes, the silence because I can't hear anything and the emptiness because Rachel isn't pressed against my front anymore. My hands grope the empty space, searching for something, only to be met with the tight coils in the blanket over me. With a lot of reluctance and effort, I slowly lift my lids, one after the other, and bring my hand to slide over my eyes.<p>

The television is off and I can see my warped reflection in it, half sitting up on Rachel's couch. Somewhere between pulling the covers off of myself and sitting up, I'm aware of the rain thrashing against the window. The sky is grey and overcastted still, but also much darker than when I came. I groan into my hands as I run it over my face once more. Well, at least I didn't make a complete idiot of myself while watching television with Rachel. The shows provided a buffer for my 'Awkward!Quinn' gene, as I now call it, and I could use it to distract from how close we were huddled together.

Standing, I stretch out my arm, which has gone to sleep on me since I took a nap on it, and slowly make my way to the foyer to look at the Grandfather clock. Jesus Christ in Heaven, it's almost 6 o'clock. I've been asleep for five whole hours? I must've really needed my rest because it honestly doesn't even feel like I was out for more than two. No wonder I can barely feel my arm.

Just as I stretch my arms over my head, I hear soft instrumental music coming from the Dining Room. Taking long, sluggish steps, I walk through the foyer, through the kitchen and onto the Dining Room. With my hand over my mouth once more and my eyes slightly closed, I enter, yawning,

"Hey Rachel, why didn't you wake me? I was asleep for a little over five—"

In the dark blue argyle sweater I picked out, Leroy is hunched over the table, setting up plates and utensils for four. I stop dead in my tracks with my mouth hanging open at the man I've been trying to avoid for weeks now. He's tall, much taller than he looks in photographs, and even though he's bent over, I can tell he's well over 6 feet. His short hair is done up in a neat trim and even though he's in the comfort of his own home, he has on cufflinks. If there were any doubt in my mind about who Rachel got her fashion sense from, it would be thrown out the window by looking at him.

I know he knows I'm standing there, but he makes no movement to acknowledge my presence, other than by cutting his eyes up at me and returning to set his plates. I'm dumbstruck, and my legs have betrayed me by turning to mush underneath me. _Pull it together Fabray, pull it together._ I close my mouth and lick my lips before I begin. A little hoarsely, I start, "Good evening Mr. Berry, I'm Qui—"

"I know who you are, Quinn. Your nose was plastered over every inch of this house for the better part of two weeks." He doesn't stop setting the table, but he lets his eyes linger on me, longer than I like. "I'd recognize you anywhere." His voice isn't as deep as Hiram's, but that doesn't make it any less intimidating.

I open my mouth to speak again, cringing a little when he cuts his eyes at the sounds I'm making, but he talks over my mumbling. "You're staying for dinner." He's not giving me an option, so I nod anyway, incapable of doing anything else. I'm in no position to protest. "I made Broccoli and Potato Gratin with a few Tempeh Wraps; Vegan since it was Rachel's idea. It'll be ready in about 15 minutes." He cocks his head back out the entrance I came from. "Rachel's up in her room and seeing as how you've been in this house many times now, I doubt you need me to help you find your way there."

He continues setting up the plates while I'm left there like a complete idiot, staring at him because I'm too afraid to do anything else. He has a lean, slender build like a runner, and I wonder if I could beat him to my car in the pouring rain. Maybe I could make it out before he catches me. He turns around to grab a few glasses, and when he reaches over the table to place them down on the table mats, his shirt bunches up around his bicep and shows the outline of a very toned arm. Then again, maybe running to the car isn't the smartest idea I've had.

Leroy meets my eyes as he sets the last glass down, and looks at me while darting his eyes to the entrance that I came from. "If you didn't catch that earlier, that was code for you to…" I don't even allow him to finish before I'm flying through the Berry household and up the stairs into Rachel's room. She's lying on her stomach writing in a notebook when I come bursting through the door, catching her completely off guard. As quietly, and carefully as I can, I close the door shut while she sits up on her bed.

My legs have a mind of their own and I'm pacing back and forth over the rug lying at the foot of her bed. He's going to kill me. He is definitely going to poison the Potato Gratin, I don't even know that that _is_, and kill me. "Leroy's down stairs," I quasi-yell between paces, "Did you know that Leroy's down stairs right now?"

Rachel dangles her feet over the edge of her four-poster bed and nods. "Daddy's been home for about an hour and a half."

"What?" He's been here all this time while I've been on the couch, dead to the world? I move quickly to the middle of her room, staring down at her on the bed. "Why didn't you wake me up?" I ask frantically. "Why did you let me sleep for so long?"

"Because you obviously needed it. I wasn't going to wake you." I release a noise, something between a scoff and a laugh, and roll my eyes towards her ceiling. I can sleep at my own house for as long as I want. Okay, so recently I haven't been able to, but at least I can try without the threat of possible death. "I know you're nervous," she continues, "and I myself have expressed concerns about you and my father in the past, but I spoke with him. He's allowing you to stay for dinner, so I'd say that's a step in the right direction."

"Why would you do that? Why would you—" I cut my own self off when Rachel stands from the bed, trying to grab my arms. I wave my hands in the air and stand away from her. "I can't stay. I have to tell him- _you_ have to tell him I can't stay." A streak of lightening brightens up her room for just a moment and I swiftly move to the rounded-window seat, kneeling down on the pink cushions to judge the height from her room to the ground. "Maybe I can shimmy out the window and down to my car. I could be gone before he even notices me missing."

"Quinn, stop being so irrational. It's raining so badly out there you can hardly see anything." I whip my head behind me and cross back until I'm standing in front of her again. "It's only one dinner; I think you can survive. You were bound to meet him anyway so better now than at some other time."

I point my hand to the ground, something I've seen my father do many times before, and right now I don't even care about the trait that was passed down to me. I keep my voice low enough so that no one hears me, but loud enough so she gets the point, "Rachel I am not staying in this house, that man is going to _kill_ me. He knows how I treated you and I'm not risking—"

"Okay, 'That Man' is my father and this is still his house, so I suggest you show some respect." Her words hit me worse than a slushie. That combined with her glare and raised voice, I falter, taking a step back to readjust myself. "And despite what you may think, I haven't told him anything about our relationship in the past so any idea he has of you, he's made on his own. I don't know how he knows, but that is up to you and him to work out."

We're both quiet for a long time, the only sound coming from the rain rapping heavily on her window pane. My head has found its way to the floor out of embarrassment and my chin barely is resting lightly on the space in the middle on my collarbone. Rachel's bare feet come into view and when I lift my head, she's raising her hands to my hair, pushing it out of my face and behind my ear.

"Have you calmed down now?" she asks soothingly.

I nod, brushing my forehead against her fingers in the process. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have overreacted the way I did."

She removes her hands from my head, and places them squarely on her hips. "I understand you apprehension, Quinn, but you have to trust me. It's going to be fine." Her hand finds its way to my shoulder and she gives is a little pressure. "I'll make sure of it."

"Girls!" Hiram knocks on the door three times to gain out attention. Through the door, he yells, "Dinner's ready!"

"We'll be right down, Dad!" Rachel answers, pivoting around to yell at the door before turning back to me. "It'll be fine, okay," she whispers in my ears as she encircles her arms around my neck, pulling me in for a hug. I'd almost forgotten about my own growing feelings for her until my arms wrap around her upper back, pushing her closer against me. Before my brain could even think about being thrown into overdrive, Rachel grabs my hand and is already taking me down the stairs.

Hiram is already sitting in the Dining Room, wiping down his wet glasses with a napkin. When he notices Rachel and I walk into the room, he put them on and holds his hand over the table for me to shake. "Nice seeing you again, Quinn." This time, I take his hand and actually manage a decent looking smile. "Thanks for staying for Dinner. We hardly ever eat in here with everyone's schedule so hectic so this is a rare treat."

I sit down on the opposite side of him, while Rachel reaches for the seat next to mine. "Thank you for having me over Mr. Berry," somehow on the way down, I regained somewhat of my social skills back, and I flash him a typical Quinn Fabray smile.

"It's no problem. Now, wait until you get some of Lee's food. It's a whole lot better than my grapes and crackers," he leans over the table a bit, whispering as if we were old friends. "I even think he may be a better cook than Rachel."

"We'll see about that Dad the next time you want me to pack your lunch," Rachel takes a napkin off of the table, shakes it out in the air and places it neatly on her lap, all the while giving her father a cross look. Her look fades however as giggles burst from her throat when Hiram folds his arm over his chest and gives a pout that I've seen Rachel give one too many times.

He breaks his imitation of Rachel, shaking his head and reaching out for one of the four glasses on the table. After he takes a few sips, he says, "You know I'm only joking with you Honey, I love all of your recipes."

"Stop it Father, you're too much," Rachel puts on a rather convincing English accent as she waves her hands in the air. Her whole family must be performers, because Hiram pretends to take photos of her while she goes through a series of poses beside me. Each time she hits a new one, he makes a _'Chh!'_ sound with his mouth, to imitate the sound of a camera shutter, while I sit there watching the exchange. I can almost remember a time when I was once like this with my own father.

"Soups's on!" Leroy's voice cuts through Rachel and Hiram's moment and he comes through the walkway carrying a hot dish overflowing with food. Almost as if we were in a cartoon, I see the steam coming off of him, trailing behind him in a wavy line, as he sets it on the table in front of us. Unlike his earlier demeanor, he is less tense and actually smiling at Hiram when he places a large spoon into the dish which Hiram immediately grabs.

"Babe, this smells wonderful. And it looks even better than it smells," He pulls Leroy down gently by the collar and presses a kiss on his cheek. "I bet it tastes even better too."

"You bet your ass it does; I put my foot in that thing."

"Daddy!" Out the corner of my eye, I see Rachel quickly darting her eyes to me at his choice of words. I'd been avoiding eye contact with him since he entered the room, and he'd been doing the same, but once Rachel mentioned me with her eyes, his own slowly make their way over to mine. He straightens out, pulling himself from Hiram and stands upright.

Leroy's expression morphs from one of happiness to something different. I can't quite tell what exactly it is, but I can tell by the way the muscles in his neck are clenched together, trying their hardest not to twitch, that he's holding back his anger. He releases an unimpressed, "huh", before pats Hiram on the shoulder. "I'll go and get the wraps," is the last thing he says before he exits the room.

Rachel sighs next to me and Hiram scoops out some of the Gratin on the plate in front of me. Giving me a small smile, he says, "Ignore my husband. He has his moments, but Lee's really a big softie on the inside."

"Yes, Daddy has a lot of moments," Rachel chimes in as she scoops some food out for herself as well. She leans over in my direction, grabbing a glass in the center of the table, to discretely whisper in my ear, "Don't worry, I'll keep him in check tonight." Ignoring the sensation of her breath ghosting across the outline of my ear, Leroy enters the Dining Room once again, this time holding a tray of Tempeh Wraps. He places them down in the middle of the table and doesn't look in my direction the entire time. Well, it's better than him kicking me out the house, I guess.

Rachel reaches for a wrap for my plate and gathers one for herself as well. At this moment in time, I'm very grateful that I decided to sit directly across from Hiram because Leroy takes the seat beside his husband. He's helping himself to his creation when a long moan escapes Hiram's lips as he bites down on his food.

"This. Is. Amazing. I knew I married you for a reason," he jokes, playfully hitting Leroy on the arm with his napkin.

"Thanks," Leroy chuckles between bites. "I knew the easiest way to your heart was through your stomach."

"You know me all _too_ well," Hiram nudges Leroy on the side with his elbow as he reaches for a wrap with a fork.

I have to admit, they're banter is kind of cute. Cute in an 'As Long As He's Paying Attention to His Family and Not Me So I'll Make It out Of Here Alive' kind of way. He isn't acknowledging my presence, so that's good. If he keeps this up, and I just make myself small and don't say a thing, I can make it—ow.

Looking down towards the floor, I see Rachel's foot hitting the top of mine repeatedly. She stops her movements, so I look up at her. She has a smile on her face and she mouths the words 'eat' to me. I must have been staring at her father's for too long and hadn't realized it. I pick up my fork and grab a bit of food.

Dear Lord, my taste buds are on overload from how good this food tastes. I barely give myself enough time to swallow the food already in my mouth before I'm reaching for another bite. By the third, I've already given up on proper social skills and I've started making small noises with every bite.

"Hey Mikey, I think she likes it," Hiram mocks, but his voice sounds like it's a thousand miles away because I'm immersed in the food. When I look up at the table to find that all eyes on me, I place my fork down on the plate and wipe my mouth with a napkin. Great impression, Fabray. Sleep on their couch for hours then eat up all their food. Rachel is trying to contain her laughter while Leroy is staring at me with his mouth hanging open and a raised eyebrow. "Well, now we know that food is the way to her heart too, eh Rae."

My ears are on fire by now and beside me, Rachel has dropped her fork on her plate and has a hand on her forehead. I clear my throat and look straight at Leroy, "The food is delicious."

He gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and continues chewing. Rachel, who has recovered from her little 'episode', throws her father a wide smile before asking, "So Daddy, do you like the sweater I brought you?"

This time, his smile does reach his eyes as he runs his arms along his sleeves. "Are you kidding? I love it. It's perfect Honey."

"Good," she says, nudging me with my elbow. "Quinn picked it out."

His smile doesn't fall from his face like I thought it would, but something behind his eyes shift as he stares at me. "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," I say, somewhat shakily. Under the table, Rachel's left hand has found my knee, and she holds it there for support. I only hope that the neither one of her fathers notice her missing hand or the way the rest of my face has followed along with my ears. I'm pretty sure I'm emitting my own rays by now at how hot my face feels.

The rest of dinner passes without anymore of "Awkward!Quinn" surfacing. I keep my talking to the minimum, unless specifically asked a question by Hiram or Rachel, and I focus my attention on eating without looking like I haven't eaten in days. Which, seeing as how I've been too nauseous to eat anything, isn't exactly far from true. Since the pool incident, my diet has switched from Hot Pockets to Orange Juice and coffee. I'm shocked I have the energy to run every morning.

When the evening comes to a close, Hiram collects the dishes and walks into the kitchen. Rachel gets up to follow him and I grab onto her sweater. Leroy immediately sharpens his gaze on my hand and I let her go, but motion to her with my eyes to lean down. "Don't leave me with him," I whisper.

"It'll be fine, just go with it," she says softly before leaving me alone with her father. His arms are crossed over his chest and I stare lamely at the table cloth. I didn't think it was possible, but this is more tense than dinner. Without Hiram and Rachel to speak up, I'm unsure of what to do.

In an attempt to break the ice, I say, "Thank you for letting me stay for dinner, Mr. Berry."

He looks me up and down with an expression I can't decipher before he speaks again. "Do you know what I do for a living, Quinn?" His tone is calm, but I can't help but think something is hiding underneath it. I shake my head 'no'. He exhales heavily, squeezing his arms together before going on, "I'm a Tech Analyst in Allentown. I write up data reports for different companies and work their servers whenever they need a hand."

I sit there, listening intently, waiting for the significance of this conversation to emerge. "I spend all of my day working with computers, so as you can imagine, when my daughter first started uploading videos on the internet…I was the first to crack into her profile, to make sure she was safe." _Oh no._ "So you see, 'Sky Splits'," he's referring to my old profile name on Myspace from Freshman year and I can already feel my stomach drop right out of my body, "Although we've only met today for the first time, I've known you for years."

"'If I were your parents, I would sell you back'. 'Please get sterilized'. 'Ru Paul'," as he spits the comments I've written on her page back at me, I can already see the tears blurring my vision. "Rachel would come home every day from school in clothes she didn't leave the house in and pretend that everything was alright. When her laundry load would become twice of what it normally was, I realized she was taking extra clothes to school in case she got _slushied_." He says the word as if he's really saying 'Yeah, I know about that too.' He sits back further in his chair, but still maintains his glare.

"Rachel doesn't know I know about you, and Hiram doesn't know a thing about you other than what Rachel tells him. And I intend to keep it that way," He pauses to lick his lips and run a hand across his brow. "You have no idea how it feels to see your daughter in pain every time she enters this house. Pain she doesn't want to talk about because she feels she needs to be strong like her parents. I've listened to her cry herself to sleep more nights that I'd like to think about."

As clichéd as it is, there is a fire inside his eyes as he leans forward and plants his arms on the table. "I don't know what your game is, but if you ever hurt my daughter again… I will end you." Leroy's voice drops a few octaves and for the first time in my life, I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of a threat.

He gets up from the table abruptly and walks over until he is in the archway of the kitchen. "Have a good night, Quinn," he calls out over his shoulder before completely disappearing. The tears that have been waiting to leave my eyes fall rapidly after a few blinks and failed attempts at moving from the table. My lips open and release a distorted breath, one caught between a whimper and a sigh, and I quickly bring a hand to slide across my cheeks. I know that I've done things that have hurt families, like the incident with Mr. Schuester and his wife, but to think that I caused someone's life that much damage because of my stupid quest for power is something wholly different. There were issues with Mr. Scheuster's former marriage, issues that I have nothing to do with, but this? I came in as some self-proclaiming dictator on a false pedestal made of lies and completely shattered Rachel every single day by my actions. Even worse, I think a part of me shattered some of Leroy with my words alone. I can only imagine how long he has been waiting to confront me. Me: the girl that not only physically and verbally, but mentally tormented his daughter from the moment she stepped into McKinley just to ensure a niche for myself in the High School Hierarchy.

And after all of that, Rachel still forgave me and welcomed me without question. Without even so much as asking for what my motives are, she accepted me and made me a part of her life. I slide my hand back across my cheeks to wipe away the last of the tears, masking my true feelings like I've done so many times before. If I screw this friendship up, I won't ever be able to forgive myself.

"Hey," Her voice is so low that I almost didn't hear her. She's standing in the doorway with a bright smile on her face. "Did you enjoy yourself? I know things were a little tense in the beginning, but that loosened up, right?" She walks over to me, standing near the chair that's next to mine while resting her hand on it.

"Everything was fine Rachel," I say, standing up to match her. "Everything was perfect."

"Would you like me to walk you to your car?"

I nod and Rachel walks me to the living room. I gather the few things I left in there while she slips on a pair of shoes near the door. Looking out the window, I see that the rain has finally let up, leaving the sky clear and freckled with stars here and there. Once outside in the brisk cold after the storm, we walk in silence until Rachel speaks up,

"Thank you again for staying for dinner. I know how weird it might have been for you since Daddy was in a mood."

"He has a right to be," I let out. "I'd be too if I had to put up with me."

"He just doesn't know you like I do."

We've stopped in front of my car, and I open the door but don't make any motions to get in. Not just yet.

"Rachel… I'm sorry about how I've treated you in the past. I know that I was horrible to you, and I want you to know that I—"

I'm stopped in my tracks when Rachel raises a finger to my lips and holds it there. "What's done is done. As far as I'm concerned, we've moved on." She slowly removes her finger from my lips, leaving me speechless. "I have and I hope you can too."

Ignoring the feeling that's slowly making its way through my body, I reach my arms around Rachel's neck so fast that she didn't even realize I'd pulled her into her arms. It takes her a few seconds, but she eventually buries her head in the crook of my neck and reaches her arms around me. I hug her, partly because I feel like I'm about to fall if I don't, but mostly because I don't want her to see the tears that are forming in my eyes. I hug her with every muscle on my body, hoping that if I somehow pull her closer, I can become more like her. More open and able to forgive people as easily as she forgave me.

"Good night, Rachel," I speak into her ear before I pull apart. I get in my car and put the key in the ignition, but Rachel leans in the open window and rests her arms on the car and asks,

"Why don't we ever hang out at your house?" I now know what it's like to have your heart literally skip a beat, because I was not expecting that question to come out of her mouth at all. "We always hang out at my house or somewhere in town, but never at your place." She shrugs her shoulders and removes herself from my car. "Sorry for the random question, it's just been on my mind. I've just been wondering if maybe you were, ashamed of being my friend or something."

"I have nothing to be ashamed about when it comes to you being my friend, Rachel. Don't ever think that." I grip the steering wheel tighter, hoping to mask my anxiety. "Things at my house have been sort of tense between my mother and I, so I didn't want to bring you into that." She's looking down at her feet, and I lean my head out to get her attention. "It has nothing to do with you, okay."

She looks up at me and gives me a smile. But even through the smile, I can see the hurt behind it. "Good night, Quinn," she takes a step back, allowing me to back out of her driveway, and stands on her porch. When I'm off and driving down her block, I can still see her tiny frame in my rear view window.

* * *

><p>-The episode of Daria that Rachel and Quinn watch is called "Pinch Sitter" from Season 1. (Random fact no one needs to know, it's my favorite quote of Sick Sad World and it happens to <em>also<em> be from my favorite episode of _Daria_).

-"Hey Mikey, I think he likes it" was a popular quote used by _Life_ (the cereal brand) in the 70's and 80's.

-In the Pilot episode of Glee during Rachel's internal monologue, the camera goes over Quinn, Santana and a few other Cheerios commenting on her myspace videos. For a brief moment, it is shown that Quinn's profile name is 'Sky Splits'.

-The title of this chapter is inspired by "La Memoire Reincarnee" by Codeseven. "La Memoire Reincarnee" loosely translates in English to, "The Reborn Memory".


	9. Apparitions

**Author's Note:** First off, a big thanks again to everyone reading this story (it's great to see people taking interest). And onto something nobody really cares about, I just started school again, so publishing may get wonky. I normally have two or three chapters already written out in advance in case I do get behind, but since school is back again, publishing them may become sporadic. But I'll try and delay that as much as I can (oh, the life of a college student). Finally, at the end of this chapter, I'll be addressing some things that some of you expressed in your reviews of the last chapter, so stick around if you wish.

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><p>"Maybe you could tell her by moonlight serenade. Rachel's one of those girls that needs to be wooed publicly. You should have seen what Finn planned for her in New York; total Rom Com serenade and she still broke up with him." Mercedes holds her left hand away from her head while rocking the right back and forth over the empty space, pretending to play the violin in the air. "Make it special and actually sing the song to her instead of inviting other people to do so. That was Finn's downfall."<p>

"Please, that's totally gay. Not that it's too far off in this situation, but you should do something personal to her. Take her to a Musical. Not in Lima of course because this town's full of shit actors, but try the next town over." Santana wriggles her eyebrows at me with a satisfied grin on her face. "And if you really wanna get all out, spring for a trip to New York. I know you've got the dough for it. If that doesn't get her panties wet, I don't know what will."

"Do you always have to talk like that?" Mercedes asks flatly, rolling her eyes.

"You know it turns you on Wheezy."

"Can you both just stop? You're giving me a headache." I'm leaning forward over the table, my hand in my hair, looking around the park to make sure I go unnoticed. "And keep your voices down. Lord knows everyone in this town is nosy."

I don't really know how I ended up in the park with both Mercedes and Santana, still alive at that, but the longer we sit here discussing my situation in public, the more my fear has a hold of me in the most suffocating way possible. It's been a few days since the dinner at the Berry house and time has done nothing to ease my mind about my feelings towards her. Leroy's threat has only added to the constant onslaught of thoughts running around in my mind, so I haven't had much time to sleep. The bags underneath my eyes have turned to suitcases and no amount of makeup I cake on my face can disguise them. Mercedes and I went out this morning, attempting to find some kind of concealer at the mall for my situation, when we ran into Santana trying to lift something from the MAC store. After getting her to put down a lip gloss that she claims is Brittany's favorite, but not before threatening to go 'All Lima Heights' on one of the workers who caught her, the three of us left the mall in search of something to do collectively. Once the two of them realized that they were both privy to my feelings for Rachel, they spent the last hour trying discussing ways for me to serenade her.

I can already feel the nausea sweeping over me again.

"Everyone's too busy to even pay attention to you, Q," Santana says, motioning to the plethora of people in the park, wandering along in their own world. "Now, if you do decide on my obviously superior idea," Mercedes shoots her a look, "you have one of two options: Take her to a classic, like_ The Phantom of the Opera_ or something new, like _Memphis._ Both of them are amazing. I'm sure Berry would love 'em both."

"Let me find out Satan is a secret Broadway nerd," Mercedes nudges Santana on the shoulder.

Santana shrugs with a smile. "I know a thing or two. Mostly just to shut Berry up when she thinks she is the Queen of Musicals."

"You do realize that I didn't ask either of you to help me with anything, right?" The entire conversation I stayed relatively quiet, giving little input, but it was getting ridiculous.

"Why not? You've obviously got it bad for her."

"Because Mercedes, I'm not ruining my friendship with her." I lift my head from my hands and sit up straighter, laying my palms face down on the table. "I'll just ignore it until it goes away." I pause, taking the time to say my words carefully, almost mechanically. "I'm sure it will." It has to.

"Okay, as a person that's gone through the same situation as you, trust me, holding it in is not going to do you any good." For a small moment, Santana's voice dies out and I start reaching across the table to grab her hand, only to see that Mercedes has already taken the initiative and beat me to it. I pull my hand back as the two share a tentative smile, before Mercedes removes her hand. "If anything," Santana continues, "you're just going to be even more uptight than you normally are."

"I am not uptight," I say defiantly.

"You are when you want to be," Mercedes agrees with a raise of a pointed finger. So much for her being _my_ friend.

"Whatever," rolling my eyes, I focus my attention away from the pair of them while they continue talking about possible ways for me to 'get' Rachel. It's all too much for me. Way too much for me to wrap my mind around. After everything that's happened between Rachel and I, telling her how I feel is not an option. If anything were to happen, if I somehow screwed her over like I did with all the guys I was with, I couldn't deal with it. It's not like I could even fathom dating a girl anyway. Just… just no. Besides, Leroy would probably kill me if I went anywhere near her in a more than friendly matter anyway.

The whole idea of being with Rachel in an intima—uhg! My head hits the table in time for me to stop the thought mid-sentence. I can't even think about it, let alone act on it. The throbbing of my head from the impact it hit the table dulls the voices of Santana and Mercedes around me, and I bring my hands to rest on the back of my neck. Someone's hand is on me, Santana's maybe, and she's rubbing circles into my back.

"Don't worry Quinn, it'll all work out," Mercedes whispers into my ear. "She's been trying to be your friend since Freshman year, so I know—"

"The operative word in that is 'friend'," my voice is subdued by the table, but I interject her insane notion. Rachel will only see me as a friend. It's not like I'm in the right frame of mind to handle anything more than a friend right now anyway. I move my hands from my neck to my head, digging them down my scalp until my hair is ruffled around them. Even if I could handle something more with her, I know she could never see me in that light. "She shouldn't even consider me a friend after everything I've done to her."

"And neither should me or Mercedes," Santana reasons. I pull my head up slightly, still keeping my hands in my hair, but moving them until I see her face. "Our whole friendship was based on a power struggle and I know for a fact that you barely gave a shit about Mercedes before Glee, so in reality, neither of us should be your friend." She holds her hands up in the air at her sides, "Yet here we are."

Mercedes shrugs her shoulders, knowing full well that Santana is right, but I scoff. "Yeah, and I'm glad that we are, but I never told either of you to 'get sterilized'." Leroy's voice seeps out from a crack in a small compartment in my mind that I reserve for stressful situations and leaks its way into all of my thoughts. Every single memory of Rachel seems to be tainted with the gravity of his threat and it only makes that sinking feeling return. Throwing my head back onto the table, I say louder than I intended, "Just forget it. The only thing these feelings have given me are bags underneath my eyes and I'd rather not face humiliation when she—"

My phone, which I laid on the top of the table at the start of the conversation, vibrates and I lift my head, knowing full well who it is by the ringtone. "It's Rachel," I say reaching for the phone.

Santana swipes it and moves away from me before I get a chance to grab it, while Mercedes holds me in place by my waist. Santana walks a few steps away from the table, sticking her tongue out to mock me and Mercedes tightens her hold on me. As if poking fun at me the entire morning wasn't enough, now she has to do this!

"Give it back!" I yell as she continues walking ahead of me, hitting the 'talk' button. Dammit. Why is it always me, why is it always _me_? "Santana, give me the goddammed phone!"

"Hey Rachel, its Satan herself," Oh God, she's going to expose me. "Yep, just hanging out with Quinn and Mercedes."

"Why are you allowing this to happen?" I hiss over my shoulder at Mercedes, trying to push my way out of her grasp. Santana's looking down at her feet, nodding at whatever Rachel is saying on the other end. It's official: My life is over. "You do realize that Santana is insane, right?"

"She's just having a little fun, Quinn." Fun? How is any of this fun? "Besides, you need to calm down. All this talk about Rachel has got you on edge."

"Oh, ya think? Of course I'm on edge! Puerto Rican Pam Anderson over there is talking to the girl I can barely be in the same room with!"

"Could you keep it down over there?" Santana has her back to us, but turns her head with her hand over the receiver to scold me. "I'm trying to have a conversation." Santana turns back around, shaking her head at something. "Sorry about that Berry, some people are _so_ rude."

"I'll show you how rude I can be when I shove my foot up your—"

"Were in the park on Willowby...uh-huh…oh great, you're close." She turns around, giving Mercedes a 'thumbs-up'. "See you soon. Bye-bye now."

The grip Mercedes has on my waist is gone and when Santana tosses my phone at me with a wink, I catch it, giving her a glare the entire time she makes her way back.

"Rachel will be here in five minutes," she says with nonchalance, sitting on top of the table. My face is a cross between a scowl and shock, and for the life of me, I can't remember why I became friends with Santana or Mercedes in the first place. "What did I tell you about that constipated look, Q? Wipe it off your face before your girl gets here."

If I weren't a woman of God, I'd kill her.

"I'm leaving," I stand, chucking my phone into my purse and pulling my legs out from underneath the table. I cannot believe this. The nerve of her. Of them both!

"You're not going anywhere," Mercedes says as I start my stride out the park. Though, it can't really be called a 'stride', more like a 'wobble' because of how bad my legs are shaking. "Do you want Rachel to think you're mad at her by leaving? She obviously knows you're here, so leaving would make things worse."

I hate it when other people make sense. Pivoting, I cross my arms over my chest and look at the two of them wearing matching smirks at the table. Mercedes has a point, leaving now would make a situation out of nothing. And if I tell Rachel something came up and that I had to leave, she would still be suspicious. Giving in, I walk back towards them, throwing my purse on the table and sitting back in my seat.

"I want you to know I hate you both." They both begin to laugh at the same time, leaning on each other at the hilarity of the situation that I fail to see. "I want you both to know that when I die I'm leaving you coal."

"Dammit, I was hoping to get a car…"

"This isn't funny Santana!" I slam my palms down on the table, already feeling the dull pain in them when they come in contact with the wood. "Why do you always have to do stuff like this? Why do you always have to put yourself in the middle of someone else's business?"

"You should be thanking me that I didn't tell her about your little crush and that I'm actually trying to help you come up with some ways to make her yours," The tone in her voice doesn't sound malicious at all like I expect, but there is something underneath it.

"I don't want to make her mine, I just want to move on with my life and pretend that I don't have feelings for her."

"And I'm telling you that doesn't work so you better shut the hell up, take my advice and act normal around her…because here she comes."

Santana points behind me, and when I whip my head around, sure enough, Rachel is walking towards us with a smile on her face. She waves, that effervescent Rachel Berry wave, and already the anxiety is coursing through my veins. I smile dumbly at her, trying to keep my cool while ignoring Mercedes' foot tapping against mine underneath the table.

"Wipe that shit eating grin off your face, Q," Santana leans in against my ear.

"Bite me Lopez," I say through gritted teeth.

Rachel finally reaches us and greets the three of us with, "Hey guys. Lovely weather for a day in the park, isn't it?"

"Perfect," I say, faking confidence. The more I act normal, or at least act like everything is alright, the quicker I can get out of this situation. I know by now Santana's throwing me a look, but I keep my attention on Rachel, watching her as she folds her hands neatly behind her back.

Mercedes smiles politely and slides over in her seat to allow Rachel to sit down next to me. I don't miss the small nod Santana sends Mercedes' way, seriously when the hell did these two become cohorts in the scheme against my sanity, but I ignore it when Rachel accidentally brushes against me in order to sit down properly.

"So," Mercedes starts, sensing the mystic spiral my head is going on, no doubt, "What've you been up to all day, Rachel?"

"Well, for the better part of the morning I was on the phone. Scheduling some…activities of sorts," she says with a tilt of her head and a lilt in her voice, "and after that I decided to go out. Nowhere in particular really, but it was such a beautiful day I had to get out of the house."

Out of an incredible amount of will power to leave the conversation, my eyes gravitate towards our surroundings and to those at the park. It's a little after three in the afternoon, so the sun is still high enough in the sky to provide much needed sunlight and warmth, but is low enough to give the right amount of shade for those near the trees. It really is a beautiful day: the rest of the park-goers are off, either lounging about on a table like the four of us, or are doing some sort of activity to keep themselves busy. A few yards ahead, there are Summer Campers in an open field, tossing a Frisbee back and forth between them. There far enough away so that I can't make out their faces, only their outlines, but close enough so that I can hear them laughing. The Camp Leaders are underneath a tree, giving little attention to the children in their ward, but there is one Camper alone, sitting underneath a tree by himself. Shifting in my seat to get a closer view, I squint my eyes, trying to make out his face, obscured by my distance and the tree casting shadows upon his face. He's reading a book, casting his eyes upwards towards the other Campers every few seconds, but never making a move to join them. His short, brown hair is cut around his ears, and he pushes his glasses further along his nose when another Camper breaks from the Frisbee circle to grab something under the tree. The boy underneath the tree smiles and exchanges a few words to the larger boy as he picks up a water bottle. He is returned with a kick that knocks the boy's book out of his hand. The smaller boy doesn't scramble to pick up the book, but waits until the larger boy returns to the circle, as if not wanting anyone to see him in pain, and positions himself back against the bark and resumes reading as if it didn't happen at all.

I can't tell if that boy reminds me more of myself or Rachel. I wonder if there's much of a difference.

"Hey Berry, settle this disagreement me and Mercedes were having earlier: As a first date, would you rather a) be taken on a romantic moonlight serenade or b) be taken to a Musical? Preferably on Broadway?"

Santana's question takes me out of the trance the Campers had on me and I give the three of them my attention once again. Mercedes bites her lip when my eyes meet hers, and I look over at Rachel, who is, assuming by the look on her face, mulling the question over in her mind.

"Rachel, you don't have to—"

"Well, I've already been on one of those. It may not have been a first date, but it counts." she starts, completely disregarding me, "It was wonderful, even if it was under the ruse of it being a 'work date', but I think I would prefer going to a Musical." Santana perks up at her confession while Mercedes slumps over a bit in her seat. "It would give myself and the person I'm on the date with much conversation, especially since it would be our first time out, and we could talk about it afterwards."

"That's right girl. I knew you'd be down for that one," Santana clicks her teeth and leans in closer to Rachel. "Now, out of these two, which would you prefer to see on your date: _The Phantom of the Opera _or _Memphis_?

The strained sigh that escapes Rachel's lips is no doubt the sound of her heart beating rapidly. Her whole demeanor changes as she takes in Santana's proposal and her body raises from excitement in her seat. She actually clutches her heart as if she's actually anticipating the date coming to fruition.

"This is the _Sophie's Choice_ of Musicals! _Phantom_ is one of the longest running shows on Broadway, selling almost a full house every single night! Oh," that strained sigh releases from her lips again, "there is no question of Phantom's brilliance: the music, the acting, the quality of the dialogue, I saw it once in Cleveland with my fathers, but to see it on Broadway. At its _home_. It's almost too much for me to wrap my mind around."

As much as I've seen Rachel rant and rave about musicals in Glee Club, it's never been like this. I suppose the idea of going to see it on a date brings out the musical geek in her. If I were to ever consider pursuing this – which I highly doubt – at least Santana has a good idea.

"But for a first date, I think it would be too emotionally daunting." I snap my head to the side, inspecting her face. So, she just went on and on about it to say that she wouldn't want to see it? "Going to see _Phantom_ in New York would be a dream, but as for a first date, I would be too emotionally drained afterwards to concentrate on anything. For a third date, absolutely, we could stay up all night discussing the symbolism of the Phantom and analyzing it's allegory to the Christian lifestyle. Besides, it's been on Broadway for years now, and years to come. Who knows how long _Memphis_ will be running."

"_Memphis_: A tale of star crossed lovers torn apart by race, but brought together by the power of music, _oh_," another sigh, "That's perfect first date material." Rachel folds her hands on the table, lacing her fingers together and beaming up at Santana. "If a boy were to ever take me to see _Memphis_ on a date, I would be thrilled!"

'A boy'. My hand unconsciously starts tugging at the end of my dress at her word choice, but what was I expecting? It's not like I'm in any position to take anyone out on any kind of date. Let alone a girl.

"Thank you for asking Santana. That was…unexpected, but wonderful nonetheless." Santana bows dramatically, as much as she can anyway, slapping me on the arm when she's done. I'm about to grab her by the leg and give her a piece of my mind when Rachel continues, "And thanks again for being much more courteous to me than you have been in recent years. I was happy to see that the Facebook messages have stopped."

Santana shrugs, keeping her eyes pinned to me the entire time, a grin growing across her face. "It's no problem Rachel. You hang out with Q, I hang out with Q. You, Quinn, Britt and I are like family now." Santana arches her eyebrow and lets her mouth hang open a bit. I know that look. That's the look she gets when she realizes something. "It's like a 'Faberry'- that's you two," she points to Rachel and I, "Santitanny, me and Britts, family. FaberrySantitanny family."

Faberry. She created a portmanteau between our last names - Faberry. The smug grin Santana has on her face is by far one of the worst I've ever seen, coupled with the way her eyes seem to light up at the way I'm glaring at her. To my left, Rachel's chuckling slightly, nudging my leg with her knee under the table.

"I like 'FaberryBrittana' better," Mercedes says wistfully from beside Rachel.

Santana sits up straighter, fixing the collar on her blazer and looking around a little. "Well," she starts slowly, "I like tits so FaberrySan_tit_anny it is." I keep my eyes on Santana, noting the way her eyes continue to dart around the park to see if anyone noticed her confession. She's confident and cocky when talking about my latest crush in public, yet I can see that on the inside, she's nervous about discussing her own sexuality in front of others.

Rachel shifts closer to Mercedes, throwing an arm around her in the process. "And who is Mercedes in our little family?" she asks with a wide smile.

"The Caretaker."

"Oh hell to the—"

"I'm joking," Santana holds her hands up defensively and drops them, chuckling all the while. "You're dope Auntie 'Cedes," she shrugs. "Great fashion sense and all."

If I didn't know any better, by the genuine grin on Mercedes' face and that shy smile on Santana's, I'd say those two were actually friends. It's better than them being after each other's throats all the time like they were Sophomore year. Next to me, Rachel takes her arm from around Mercedes while the other girl stands.

"Well, it's been real you two, but Auntie 'Cedes and Auntie Tana have to get going."

"It's about time," I grumble, raising my hand to my mouth to bit on my nail.

Santana stares at Mercedes with a questioning look on her face before she finishes, "Breadstix?"

Santana nearly falls off the table from how quickly she rushes over to Mercedes. "I thought you'd never ask. See you Q- Rachel."

"Go on. Bye. Leave," I yell after them, Santana waving her hand in the air as the two of them walk off arm in arm. There is no doubt in my mind that those two are out to get me.

"I know you're probably tired of hearing me ask this by now, Quinn, but I have to." Rachel's moved over somewhat in her seat, but still has her gaze on me. More specifically, on my eyes. "Are you okay? You've got dark rings under your eyes."

Shit. Is it that noticeable? I thread my fingers loosely through my hair to move it in front of my eyes, blocking her view of my bags. Rachel was right, my hair is longer since New York, I haven't cut it and the length gives me the option of obscuring anyone from looking me directly in the eyes.

"You're still having trouble sleeping, aren't you?" She reasons, watching me push my hair down.

"Unfortunately."

"Since you seem to have no problem falling asleep at my house," she pokes a delicate finger in my rib, "I really should take offense to that, you know, how about you come to over. We could watch re-runs of _Daria_ until you inevitably fall asleep on my couch."

My head drops, an attempt at hiding my laughter and when I look up, Rachel is already standing beside the bench. "Sure," I reply fiddling with the end of my skirt. As if someone hit me on the back of the head, Leroy's words echo through my skull and my mind travels to the last time I fell asleep at her house. As an excuse, I add, "I need to go to my house first, so I'll meet you at yours later."

Rachel smiles, holding her hand out for me to take. "I'll see you in about an hour, then?" she asks once I come to a standing position beside her.

"In an hour," I confirm with a nod of my head. I only hope an hour is enough to calm me of my nerves.

* * *

><p>As it turns out, an hour isn't nearly long enough to rid my mind of Leroy's voice. I've been driving around Lima aimlessly ever since Rachel and I left the park, hoping to drown out the voices in my head that are not my own. It's absolutely infuriating to hear them; their expectations of me, the threats they make towards me, what they truly think of me. All of their voices bombard me at once, knowing what to say and when to say it at the right moment just to get me down further than I already am, forcing me to close my eyes so tightly until I see stars just to get them to quiet down. It never really works, but it's always worth a shot.<p>

It's even worse when my voice joins in.

Because I'm driving, I don't have the option of shutting my eyes, so I opt for making my way carefully down the route to Rachel's house. It's only been about forty-five minutes, but I know from previous experience that keeping her waiting also means keeping her worried. I may not have been able to calm myself down yet, despite keeping myself busy with driving, but I'd rather sacrifice that then having Rachel worried about the strength of our relationship. Our Friendship, I mean. That is the extent of our relationship and that is only going to be the— wait, is that Puckerman?

I slowly bring my car to a stop on her curb, all the while, keeping my eyes pinned to Rachel and Puck who are…hugging on the steps outside her house. I would be almost jealous if I couldn't see the look of desperation on Puckerman's face when he slouches down to reach her for another, longer hug. His arms are wrapped tightly around her waist, squeezing her so hard that I can see his muscles tighten as she slides her arms around his neck. His eyebrows are knitted together tightly, pushing upwards as he squeezes his eyes shut, leaning further into her embrace. Rachel's face is obscured by my angle, but when Puckerman pulls away from her, she looks at me with this shocked expression on her face. As if my presence is disturbing them.

Puck turns around, locking eye contact with me for just a second and turns back to Rachel to pat her on the shoulder. He walks off the stairs and into his jeep, I hadn't even noticed his truck in front of mine because I was too busy looking at them, but he speeds off without so much as a wave or acknowledgment of my presence aside from our eyes meeting briefly.

I'm out my car and on her porch before Puck even gets off her block.

"What were you talking to Puck about?" I know I'm out of line to ask and I know I shouldn't be questioning her about her friendships with people, but I can't stop myself.

Rachel's face immediately brightens with the deepest shade of crimson I've ever seen and she begins to play with her fingers absentmindedly, twirling them until they too turn colors. She shifts on her feet before answering. "Noah and I were just talking about Senior Year and Glee Club for next fall."

She's lying. Or at the very least, not saying the whole truth. I can tell by the way she's avoiding eye contact and using her hands expressively that something's wrong.

"What are you not telling me?"

There's a pained look on her face, the way her eyebrows sag on her face and bites down on her lip, lets me know that there is definitely something wrong. She twists her fingers a bit more, looking for the right words to say and finally looks me in the eyes. She blinks a few times, gathering her thoughts, before beginning,

"Noah wanted to talk to me about Shelby so he can visit Beth."

It feels as though someone hit me over the head with a concrete cinder block. Getting hit has split my mind into three distinct pieces: the first is me standing here looking at Rachel dumbly while trying to decide what to do. The second is lying crumpled on the floor, covered in blood and embarrassment from the brick and her answer simultaneously. The third, the one that entices me the most, is tearing every single shrub out or Rachel's yard and throwing it against her house with such vigor I'm afraid an arm is about to pop right out of the socket.

Two of those situations may be in my mind, but they both feel so real and raw that for a brief moment, I have a hard time separating reality from what's going on inside my mind. I can't tell if I'm the one gripping Rachel by the shoulders and shouting obscenities in her face or if it's really me curled up in the fetal position around her feet, holding my knees with one arm and running my hand along the bruises on my face.

"Quinn, talk to me," Rachel's hand is on my arm and I realized that although my mind has been moving, my body has been stuck in the same position, only slightly rocking back and forth. Her fingers wrap around me, pulling me closer, and the other two Quinn's seem to jump back into me, ripping me from the inside, fighting for control over my actions. I pull out of Rachel's grasp and get into my car.

She's saying something to me—God I can't _think_— but her voice sounds clouded, muffled out like I was ten thousand feet under water. Fetal Quinn is pulling me down further, pushing past the barriers and forcing me to lay down with her underneath the sea bed of my thoughts. Angry Quinn's grabbing me by my hair, pulling me back up, through the blood of Fetal Quinn and the voices in my head to grip the steering wheel. By the time my key is in the ignition and Rachel is looking at me with a dejected expression in front of my car, I can't separate myself from Angry Quinn.

"Rachel, move from in front of my car." This voice tastes weird on my tongue, so I guess Angry Quinn got a hold of me. I repeat slower, "Move from in front of my car."

"But if I move, you'll leave." She's standing there, all penny loafers and white tights, pleading with me to stay. "I don't want you to leave."

I inhale deeply as Angry Quinn puts the car in reverse until she's far enough out of Rachel's way to push forward. I'm in the passenger's seat with my hand pressed flat against the window, looking at Rachel's body get farther and farther away while the car is going 60 in a 30 zone. Yellow quickly turn to 'speed up' and stop signs get completely disregarded as we drive to my house faster than I've ever been. There are people literally jumping out of the street from how quickly we're going, and before I can turn my head to make sure they're alright, I'm being pulled by my hair once more and shoved into the driver's seat. As if I'm on automatic just like my car, I can feel it build up inside me. Angry Quinn's inside me building a fortress brick by burning brick to maintain her hold on me.

Rachel and Puckerman. The two of them. Plotting to see my child. _My_ child. The one_ I_ brought her up for nine months while still maintaining a 4.0 GPA, the one_ I_ had to deal with alone when Scheuster's crazy ex-wife wanted to take her from me, the one_ I _had to handle with while getting knocked around in the hallways during school. They don't know anything about that. They don't know shit about dealing with that and yet they plan on seeing my kid without me. My fucking child. I've gotten to know Rachel so much over the last month, and yet she neglected to tell me anything about this. She didn't say a damned word about _this_.

"How dare she…" I'm beyond trying to see who the voice belongs to, because at this point I don't even care. The street lights are coming at me faster as my foot presses down harder on the gas, trying to stop myself from rocking back and forth in the seat. "How could she?" releases from my lips slow and hot, burning its way from my lips and out into the relative silence of my car other, other than my haggard breaths. After everything we've been through, after everything I've told her, she's decided to take it upon herself and plot against me to see my child. Not even taking one moment to think about my feelings in the matter. It's bad enough I couldn't handle her on my own, but having her dangle that in front of my face is an entirely new thing.

It feels like I let my daughter down all over again.

I look up to see that my car has stalled, but thankfully, I'm already home. I hadn't even made it into the garage before this piece of shit gave up on me; instead, I'm halfway on the drive way and half way on the front lawn at an awkward angle. Getting out the car and looking at the skid marks from my drive over only adds salt to my already irritated mood, so I dart for the door and slam it behind me once I enter.

"How dare she! How fucking dare she!" I'm screaming, and they echo back to me in the empty house, reminding me how of how alone I truly am. I decide to let one more person in my life and they betray me. How could she have failed to mention something like this to me? Time is moving at a pace that I can't keep up because I don't remember moving to the stairs, let alone dragging everything in sight that I can get my hands on down. All the photographs, the vases and imported sculptures my mother brought for Christmas two years ago are lying on the floor in pieces, broken and useless.

Kicking my bedroom door open, I grab onto the first thing I can get my hands on, which happens to be the glasses case, and toss it as hard as I can to the wall on the other side of the room. They don't break, the glasses remain safely in their home, but it's not enough. The AP Chem book from last year makes a loud thumping sound when it crashes against the lamp on my beside table and my perfume bottles makes an almost melodic metallic sound when they hit the wall at a high speed. I would be able to hear the way my phone sounds when I throw it at the mirror of my vanity too if I weren't screaming so loud. My body is on fire and by now, excitement and rage have become one as I snatch the bed sheets and toss them to the ground, digging my nails into the bed, ripping the feathers free of its confinement.

I can almost see the springs of the bed— how wonderful would it be to unwind them and use it to scratch the walls— when a wave of coolness sweeps over my body and Fetal Quinn makes her return, pulling me down once more. I can see Angry Quinn looking down at me from my bed with her hands on her hips as I'm forced down under. I hit the bottom hard, looking up at the purple and red bruises on Fetal Quinn's face, but I'm too tired to fight. She seems to mold into me, making me feel all of her pain at once, and I give in. Tired and wounded, I give in.

* * *

><p>- Alrighty then, for those of you willing to read this, thank you. Now, a lot of you expressed that reading the last chapter was stressful because of Leroy's behavior towards Quinn, and to be honest, that was exactly my intention. I'm glad that Quinn's nervousness and apprehension came off that way because I wanted to make sure that you guys could feel how scared she really was. Especially when it came to Leroy's threat. Concerning that threat, I understand that he openly threatened a minor (because Quinn is still 17), but that is not the last you will hear about it. It will come up again. His actions and his feelings regarding her will be discussed later as the story progresses. Whether it was appropriate for him to threaten her, knowing so little about her other than what he saw online and what he has heard from Rachel, well, that is up to you. The beauty of reading is you make your own interpretation: and if you have the time, I am open to listening to it. (A big theme in this story is 'Nobody's Perfect' and that most certainly applies to not only the young adults in this fic, but the adults as well).<p>

My intention is not to berate Quinn in any way shape or form (after all, I'm writing from her perspective, so I do like her as a character) but I wanted Quinn to see how other people view her outside of her world. Her world, being Mckinley High and the Fabray home. Quinn's growth into an adult is something I'm exploring here and I wanted her to see what others thought of her outside in the _Real World_, which she will be entering soon. She has to learn that her actions will effect her in the future and that she can't hide behind that facade any longer. (See, **Born this Way**: "I pretty much have a warped sense of the world. Being a hot 17 yr old, you can get away with or do anything you want, so I kinda always assume that people are always nice and accommodating"). She has to grow up some time.

-The title of this chapter is inspired by "Apparitions" by Long Distance Calling.


	10. Separation

**Author's Note:** Thank you all once again; I don't think I can express my gratitude enough. It's quite hard to believe that this is Chapter 10 already. You guys are amazing. (And yes, that was a _Misfits_ reference in one of the previous chapters. I'm glad some of you caught it.)

To _Flux Fan_: Have her chances gotten slimmer? Well, let's just see after this chapter.

* * *

><p><em>"Hey, this is Quinn Fabray, I'm unable to answer the phone right now, so please leave a message and I'll make sure to get back to you later. Vote Quinn and Finn for Prom Queen and King! Have a Blessed Day."<em>

Tuesday, 5:35 pm

"Quinn, I am _so_ sorry. Please, just come back. Perhaps I overstepped my boundaries with visiting Beth without you, but you must understand that Noah and I have an agreement. Sort of. Look, I'd really prefer it if we talked in person, so will you please stop driving away and turn around. I can understand your hesitance towards speaking with me at this time as I assume your emotions are running haywire right now, but please just talk to me. Hear me out as to what I have to say and everything will be alright. Please, come back—"

Tuesday, 5:39 pm

"Sorry, it's Rachel again. Apparently I spoke too long on the machine so it cut me off. Just call me back Quinn. Please. I really would like to talk this out."

Tuesday, 7:24 pm

"Quinn, talk to me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I was just trying to help Noah out with his feelings. He really misses Beth. A lot. Please call me back."

Wednesday, 10:45 am

"Good morning Quinn. It's Rachel. I hope you'll be able to talk to me today. I promise you that we can work out whatever there is to work out and I just want both of us to move forward from here. Call me when you can."

Wednesday, 4:19 pm

"Hey…it's Rachel again. There's a _Daria_ marathon on Logo right now, in case you're bored. You can come to my house and watch it if you want… I'm always available for you. Have a good day Quinn."

Thursday, 11:28 am

"It's Mercedes, what the hell did you do to Rachel? She's been calling me nonstop and as much as I like the girl, I'm tired of hearing her talk about you for three hours straight. Whatever it is, you have to settle it with her because she's driving me up a wall. Call her."

Thursday, 7:01 pm

"Good evening Quinn. I know you're ignoring me and although I understand that you are upset with me, I would prefer it if you would just come out and speak to me. You should just tell me the problem instead of hiding away from me. I hope you have a good day."

Friday, 2:21 pm

"Hi Quinn, Brittany here. I saw Rachel today at the Animal Shelter I volunteer at. She was looking at the rabbits and I told her how you loved rabbits, she told me she knew then we got into this long conversation about you but I got bored half way through because she went off on one of her 'Rachel tangents'. Anyway, she seemed upset and I'm good at sensing when people are sad, so I just want to let you know that you should probably call her. Bye."

Saturday, 12:17 pm

"This is getting really immature, Quinn. I've apologized so many times and seeing as how you're ignoring every single one of them, I have half a mind to leave you alone. I understand that you're mad, but has it crossed your mind that not everything is about you? Some things are not only about you or even me. There are things that you don't know and you won't ever know if you continue to act like I do not exist…I hope you have a good day."

Saturday, 8:41 pm

"Okay, I don't know what you and Rachel are having a little fight about, but she's started calling me too. I don't even know how Berry got my number, probably from Britt or something, but call her. I spent the last hour listening to her rant about you and if I weren't trying to be nice because I'm actually starting to _like_ her, I would have stapled her mouth shut over the phone. CALL HER."

Sunday, 8:55 am

"Seeing as how Judes told me you locked your door sometime in the night, I'm guessing you're not going to Church today. People need Him more when they're going through times of trouble than they know. Call me."

Monday, 11:37 am

"You can't hide from everyone forever, Q. Not anymore... call me."

**There are no more messages**.

* * *

><p>I've been staring at the same pattern on my cream colored wall for so long that I'm beginning to think its staring back at me. I feel like I'm in <em>The Yellow Wallpaper,<em> watching as the simple line pattern turns to something malicious with huge, bulbous eyes trying to gnaw away at any last bit of sanity I have. It's been seven days since I last spoke to anyone, six since I saw my mother, five since I stopped looking out the window, four since I last showered, three since I stopped getting water, two since I left my room and one since I got out of the bed. I've forgotten how long it's been since I last ate, but judging at how far my stomach has receded, it's been over a week. I was living off of coffee and orange juice before any of this happened and being stuck in my room hasn't done anything to help me. The only reason I haven't drooped dead is because I was drinking water to stave off the hunger pains, but I even stopped doing that out of sheer…well, I honestly don't know.

I was angry. So angry when I got home from Rachel's a week ago, but something snapped and that anger turned to guilt, self loathing and a general feeling of dislike towards myself. It's the beginning of summer all over again, only this time I can't fix it by going on a long walk or by reading a book. I can't do anything other than watch the warped pattern on my wallpaper from the shadows left by the sun, hoping that I don't see something staring back at me. Or worse - my own reflection.

Somewhere between the time I decided to stop looking out the window and leave my room, my emotions decided to confuse the hell out of me and come out all at once. I'm going from mad at myself to mad at Rachel in a manner of minutes, then to pitying myself. The rapid cycling of emotions added to the constant hammering in my skull, (I've had a headache ever since I stopped drinking water) so I can't do anything but lie on my bed. Before I used to shuffle around my house without purpose, but since then I've relegated myself to the bed; even if the metal spring that I set free has been leaving coil shaped outlines on my neck whenever I roll over through the night. Rachel's stopped calling a while ago, so there's no real reason for me to get up and check my phone anymore.

There are muffled voices outside my door, followed by three lights raps and the turning of a knob. I unlocked the door a few days ago, knowing that Mother wouldn't try coming in again after all her wasted attempts, but when I hear footsteps inside, I pull the comforter over my head once I smell vanilla lightly wafting through the room. I would know her scent anywhere.

"Hey. Your mom gave me these books," Mercedes' voice is soft and caring and everything mine isn't. She puts down what sounds like a box on the floor and takes a few more steps towards the bed. Louder because of her proximity, she says, "Says she found them in the attic. Something about a nanny and these kids or something."

_She's a nurse._ My feet move to the floor first, falling much harder than I intended due to the lack of use in the past few days and once the feeling returns to my legs, I slowly pull the comforter off my head. Sitting up proves to be more dizzying than I expected and with my back towards Mercedes, I plant my hands firmly on the bed and push off. I'm up for three seconds before I'm down again, hitting the bed so roughly that I actually fall back onto my side. It literally took the wind out of me and I'm breathing through my nostrils heavily. I guess this is what happens after not eating for over a week and lying in bed for over a day. My legs feel like rubber and my stomach feels like it's caved in on itself, which I suppose, is accurate. I roll my head away from the coil, pulling up a strap on my tank that's fallen below my shoulder, and push my face further into the mattress, trying to mute my breathing from Mercedes. I don't really want her to see me like this. I don't want anyone to see me like this.

With a large intake of air, I push off from the bed once more and stand, planting my feet firmly on the carpet. I'm slightly leaning forward to catch my breath, but at least I'm standing. I can hear Mercedes' feet shuffle behind me, presumably moving out of my way, so I start to take slow, shaky steps towards the box. I'm winded after a few steps, stopping about half way to Mercedes to rest my hand on the foot of my bedpost, but I eventually grab the three books out of the box and place them in the nearby bookcase.

"Damn girl," Mercedes whispers beside me, putting her hand on the small of my back when I take a step back too far from the shelf. Dammit. If it weren't for her holding me slightly, I would have fallen back on the floor for sure. My nails digging into the wood of one of the shelves on the bookcase wouldn't have been able to keep me up. She leads me back to my bed, removing her hand to put me in a seating position, which I immediately get out of once I come in contact with my tousled sheets. Falling back onto the bed with an _oomph!,_ I curl myself once more into a fetal position with my back to Mercedes and my front to the window.

"So this is the part where we talk," her voice resonates through the room and I can somehow feel it in my bones, the way she's trying to get through to me. I bring my knees closer to my chest and cradle them under the covers.

"You look like shit."

Wow. After all this time, that's all she has to say?

I try and say, "Thanks," but after not speaking for an entire week, except for a few moans and groans here and there due to my unruly dreams about Rachel, it leaves my lips as a croak.

"You sound like shit too."

Exasperated, I turn around in a fit, keeping the covers pulled up to my neck, "Did you come all this way just to tell me how horrible I look and how crappy I sound? I could have done that on my own, you know. I don't need your help on beating myself up anymore than I already do."

"Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately?" she asks in a much softer voice. In place of answering, I shift my head away from her, opting to stare at the window pane. The truth is I haven't. Not since I stopped going to the window. The old habit I had of not looking at myself whenever I went past a mirror or some other type of reflecting glass kicked right back in once I noticed the bags underneath my eyes last week. I've always been used to people staring at me, good or bad, but I don't make a habit out of it. Even when I lost all the weight and the acne, I never stared at my reflection for too long. If I do, the flaws will become more noticeable.

"Your face is gaunt, Quinn. Sunken in worse than I've ever seen," she doesn't know when to stop. "When was the last time you've eaten?"

"I don't know," I answer hoarsely, rolling my head back towards her. "I don't remember. I haven't been feeling up to eating. Or doing anything."

"I can tell," she says, pushing my hair out of my eyes. I can only imagine what this looks like to her: looking at me curled underneath my sheets, thin as all hell with my room in disarray. Pathetic. Feeble. Cowardly. I don't even want to make a guess at what she's feeling. My own feelings are enough. "You can't keep doing this, you know."

She shifts closer to me, rolling her arm around my shoulder and fingering the hair that's stuck to my neck. "You can't keep shutting us out only to shut yourself in. It's not healthy," her eyes quickly scan my room, looking at some of the few things I kept from my childhood in pieces. After my loss at Prom, Mother let me keep her old Tiara and I've kept it on my vanity as a reminder for what I wanted to have Senior Year. Even that I showed no mercy. The last time I saw it, part of it was underneath my bed and the other part was lodged between my bookcase and the wall.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

I want to say that it's a simple answer, but it never really is, isn't it? Four simple letters set me off, but it's more than that. So much more than that.

"Do you know he sees her?" I look into her eyes, those wise eyes that haven't passed judgment on me in years, trying to get her to understand. I'm looking at her almost pleadingly, hoping that if I stare at her long enough, she could know what I'm feeling – feel it for herself – and take it away from me. When she tilts her head due to lack of understanding, I utter those four letters:

"Beth."

She looks down at the mattress and _God_ I want her to look back at me and take this away. Take away the pain I've been feeling for the last week and put it someplace that the dark crevices of my mind can't find to use it against me. There is no weight on my chest, no overly exaggerated boulder sitting on my chest, pushing me down. After all, there can't be a weight on your chest when there's nothing there. There's this gaping hole where there ought to be something in my chest. An empty cavity that no tiara or sash or cheerleading trophy can properly fit or fill is right in the center of my body.

"What kind of mother doesn't even make an attempt to see their child when they're within a 50 mile radius?" I think I would cry if there was anything left inside me. "What makes it even worse is that I see Shelby's daughter almost every day… and didn't even think to ask about her." Shelby may only be Rachel's mother through by birth, but they're still bonded. I've pushed Beth to the back of my mind so much that I don't even think about her when I see Rachel, her adopted mother's child, everyday. "What kind of mother does that Mercedes? What kind of person does that?"

It takes her a full minute to respond, but she does so with, "No one is perfect, Quinn. Not even you." I sniffle, blinking back tears that I hadn't even known escaped, pulling the covers closer to my face. "You've got to stop this pity-party. It's self-destructive and not good for your well being. Just look around." After a beat, she says, "This isn't normal."

"I was angry," I answer in a whisper.

"Are you still angry?"

"No."

"What're you right now?"

"…embarrassed."

"About what?"

"At myself. My actions. My feelings."

"You should never be embarrassed about your feelings. Your actions, maybe, but I can't really say since I don't know exactly what you did to Rachel."

"…I feel like I've destroyed everything we made so far in one week. I don't know how to fix it."

Mercedes moves and pulls me up by the shoulders, taking me out of the comfort to rest my head on her arm. "For starters, you could start with a 'hello'. Where you take it from there is up to you." She shakes me a few times, just make sure that I'm still with her and that I haven't drifted off. Lord knows the number of times I've drifted off with my head on her because of the baby.

"I think that's a start," I say quietly.

"Good," she says back, squeezing me roughly. "Now, you go see Rachel, fix whatever happened between the two of you and Santana and I can continue planning out you guys' first date."

"_Mercedes_," I whine.

"But- breakfast first. You need to eat. I'll go down and fix something with Judy," Her lips find my temple and she places a light kiss on it before getting up. It's the first intimate amount of physical contact I've received in days – or contact period – and a smile actually graces my face. It isn't big or anything, and the muscles in my face have to warm up to it, but it's a smile nonetheless.

"Thank you." I call out when she's halfway to the door. She comes back to the bed, giving me another hug, and pulls up quickly to head to the door. I guess this is what it's like having real friends. Having them see you at your lowest point and still not having them give up on you. It's a fairly new concept to me, real _true_ friends, but with the ones that have stuck around after everything I've done, I can't thank them enough. I may not feel the best, or look it, but I am going to get out of this house and do something.

"And Quinn," she calls over her shoulder just as she's about to leave.

"Yeah?"

She makes a face that lets me know that whatever is about to come out of her mouth, she's going to say it in the nicest way possible. With a semi-smile and semi-grimace, she says, "You might want to take a shower before you go see Rachel."

Oh. "Right," I remove the covers just enough just so I can seem my curled up body underneath. Showering is definitely number one on my 'to-do' list.

"Just remember I still love you!" she yells once she's down the hall.

* * *

><p>Breakfast with Mother and Mercedes was relatively quiet with Mercedes filling the void by talking to my mother about everything and anything. She stared at me, through glossed over eyes and a heavy brow, but didn't directly ask me about why I shut everyone out for the past week. I could see her eyes gravitate towards me whenever I moved for an extra piece of toast, but she didn't utter a word to me unless it was "Pass the syrup." It was almost as if she knows something. Something I don't know, but the way she raised an eyebrow when she came into my room after I was done dressing to ask if I wanted bacon or sausage, I can tell she knows something. I have issues with being kept out of the loop when it pertains to my own life.<p>

My Escalade was in the garage by the time I left for Rachel's house, Mother must have moved it somehow, but I couldn't get it to start. So I walked. Walked until I didn't feel as full from breakfast and walked until I found my hand resting on the Berry's door. It was the early afternoon, so I knew both of her parents were still at work and I knew that would give me ample time to talk to her and hopefully air everything out. Hiram and Leroy hadn't actually crossed my mind for an entire week until I was on my way there, but after being threatened by one of her Fathers, I wasn't going to take the chance and shoe up to her house when one of them would be around. As accommodating and welcoming as Hiram was, the idea of being caught off guard by Leroy for a second time is frightening enough to make me stay away from the both of them as much as possible.

Much like the beginning of my summer, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs and after a few moments, the turning of locks. I take a step back, bracing myself for whatever I'm about to receive, and stare with heavy eyes occasionally drifting to the ground as Rachel opens her door. She's wearing the same outfit she wore when we visited the doctor about her nose, that short black skirt I love with a black & white striped shirt, and it makes me feel even worse. She folds her arms over her chest and leans against the door pane with an unreadable expression on her face. I plant my feet firmly, keeping my gaze on her and whisper,

"Hello."

Rachel arches an eyebrow and fixes her mouth into a line. She's staring at me, unnaturally long before she opens her mouth and says, "'Hello?' Are you kidding me? After all this time you have the audacity to just show up to my house with a 'Hello'?"

So much for 'You had me at hello'. I guess this is what I get from watching too many Rom Coms with Santana whenever she gets drunk. I shift my weight to my left leg and slip my hands into the pockets of my cardigan.

"I'm sorry for ignoring your calls," taking a breath, I continue, "If it makes you feel any better, I was ignoring everyone. Not only you."

Rachel closes the door behind her and moves down the stairs until she's standing directly in front of me. "It does not make me feel better in the slightest… but I do accept your apology." Her eyes trail along my body, stopping to look at my collarbone, which I know is sticking out more than usual due to my lack of eating, and I try to pull my dress up as inconspicuously as possible. I can tell by the way she looks me in the eye that my actions do not go unnoticed, but she ignores it and says, "And I apologize as well."

I hadn't actually thought about what this conversation would entail, but hearing her apologize to me after a week of me berating myself is something I wasn't expecting. It's not that the nature of why I left Rachel in a fury was forgotten, because it's been the only thing on my mind, but I had forgotten about her involvement in it all. I was once again, concerned with only myself and my feelings towards the baby. Rachel grabs my hand, tugging me to follow her until we are seated side by side on the steps. It's an unusually hot July afternoon, but there is a breeze providing a reprieve from the heat. When goose bumps actually pick up on my arms from it, Rachel turns to me with her hands in her lap.

"You must understand: I don't apologize for my actions with Noah, but I do apologize in the way in which you found out. It was unfair to you and for that I am truly sorry." I thought I braced myself enough for this conversation, but hearing it now is somehow worse than being locked up in my room. My eyes have been staring at my hand in my own lap and when when Rachel's hands find mine and grip around my wrists, I still can't find a way to bring my eyes up to meet her.

"Noah and I have a…a weird friendship. Initially when he began approaching me as a friend, I thought it was because we were both Jewish and he still had it in his head that he could get into my pants, but since then he has become one of my best friends," Rachel takes a breath, squeezing my hand a little before rubbing me along my arm. "But, even before he became my friend, he approached me about Shelby. And about Beth."

The fact that she could say her name so easily astounds and enrages me. Before today, I hadn't said her name since the last time I saw Shelby at the hospital the afternoon she was born. It's much easier to keep her at a distance by referring to her as 'the baby' or 'my daughter' instead of personalizing it. It makes it almost as if it never happened. As if she never happened. And if wanting to pretend that the most selfless moment I've ever had in my life never happened doesn't make me feel bad enough, here is a girl with no connection to her whatsoever (other than that her own birth mother adopted her) can say her name with such ease. It makes me feel sick all over again.

"It's no secret he wanted to keep her. Even before we were friends I would overhear him talking to Matt and Mike after Glee rehearsal about all the things he would teach her when she got older. When you two decided to give her up, everyone could see he was distraught by it." She takes another breath to run her hand through her hair and returns it to my arm when she's done. "About three months after she was born, he showed up on my doorstep, much like you actually, wanting to go for a walk. He asked me if I had Shelby's number and if I could arrange a meeting between the two of them. I would serve as a liaison of sorts so he could see Beth. And it's been that way ever since. Through your daughter, Noah and I formed a friendship where he would call me, I would call Shelby and arrange a date for them to get together."

Though I somehow feel much more beaten and defeated than I did earlier this morning, slowly, I lace my fingers with hers. She gives me a timid smile and drums her fingers along the back of my hand briefly. "I'm guessing that the 'activities' you were 'scheduling' last week were more meetings between Shelby and Puck, right?"

She stares at me wide-eyed and shakes her head at me. "You remembered what I said last week?"

Honestly, I answer, "I remember just about everything you say."

A cross between a laugh and a sigh releases from her mouth and she looks at me as though it were the oddest thing in the world. "Wow. I'm generally not used to people paying attention to what I say, let alone remembering it almost verbatim." As much as the old me would have wanted to say that I never actually paid attention to a word she said, a part of me knows it absolutely untrue. Her words, no matter how convoluted and laced with guilt or sadness they often were, have always stuck with me. She seems to have come out of her daze and answers, "Yes. I was scheduling another date with them."

"Noah's mother was involved in an accident at the end of the school year and she's been unable to move around as much as she used to. She's doing much better, but Noah's been taking up some of the financial burden since her work hours have essentially been cut in half." Again, that part of me that's filled with self-loathing rears its head and my body language changes thinking about Puck's mother. I don't know much about her, other than the brief time I spent with her when she let me live with her, but she was always nice to me. Caring like Finn's mother, and never hesitated to get me anything that I needed once she realized I was having a child with her son. When I left to live with Mercedes, I didn't think about her twice. I don't even think I said goodbye.

"When Noah isn't working or helping his mother, he spends as much time as he can with Beth. His calls have increased so much during the summer and he visits her so often. Instead of getting his frustration out on a marathon round of Halo or some other typical teenage boy activity, he goes out with Beth and Shelby." Rachel brings her hand to my chin and forces me to look her directly in the eyes once more. My eyes had somehow found their way to my lap once more, only to stare at our intertwined fingers. "You would really be proud of him, Quinn. He has grown up and matured so much since last year. I only wish people at school would see it, instead of thinking of him as a delinquent."

"Have you seen her?" I don't even know where that came from, but I say it in my normal whisper.

Rachel bends her head and looks at the ground before looking back up at me.

"Yes."

Nothing short of an explosion goes off in my brain at her words, and I take a lip between my teeth. Who knew that three simple letters could hurt so much. Rachel's been seeing my daughter for months and I couldn't even get my head out of my ass long enough to find her. I thought I'd feel better by the end of this conversation, but clearly that's not the direction it's heading.

"She's beautiful," she speaks so softly. It takes all I have not to cry from this conversation, but I've done enough of that last week. Instead I remain stoic. "I never wanted to do any of this without you. When Noah first came to me, you were the first one to come to my mind. I asked him if he wanted to invite you but he told me that you probably wouldn't be interested. He even asked me to keep it a secret." I scoff. "Not only from you, Quinn, but from everyone. I don't even think he tells his mother."

"He's right you know," I say flatly. "I wouldn't have come even if you asked me to."

"If you want, I'm sure Shelby wouldn't—"

"No," I cut her off. I'm not ready. I don't think I can ever be ready for that. "I can't."

Rachel doesn't press further, but remains quiet as I take in her words. And, as I assume, she takes in mine. I can't even fathom seeing her, let alone interacting with her. I've missed so much. I would have to play catch-up in her life, become a part of it and then what? What happens when all of this is over? When summer is over, when senior year is over… what then? Am I supposed to leave her all over again? I can't allow that to happen.

I glance over to Rachel, noticing that her feet are turned inward and her eyes are focused on the small space in between them. I haven't seen her this vulnerable since the last time she wore that outfit in the doctor's office.

"There's one thing I don't understand." I state. She brings her attention back to me, lifting her head and meeting my eyes. "Puck has been seeing Shelby and B-Beth for over a year now, right?" She nods. "Why does he still need to go through you? He should have some sort of relationship with her by now, so why doesn't he just talk to her directly?"

It's the wrong thing to ask. Her face drains of its color and her fingers loosen around mine. She removes them completely and wraps them around herself until she's cradling her elbows.

"He goes through me because it gives me a chance to speak to my biological mother. We have a sort of…sort of unspoken agreement. Shelby wasn't too keen on keeping a relationship with me like I had hoped after I finally found her. She feels that acting like a 'Mom' to me would be confusing for me, which, I can somewhat agree with, but she is still my 'Mother' biologically. I will never get to know her like most children know their mothers, but it's better than nothing. Before Noah came to me about Beth, the last time I even spoke or saw Shelby was at Regional's last year. He knows how much it means to me to get to know her, because there is _so much_ I want to know, and going through me allows us to talk. It allows us to have a friendship. I may not have a 'Mom', but Noah at least gives me the opportunity to know my 'Mother'."

There are tears in Rachel's eyes, aching to be set free, but she blinks them back and puts on a strong face; lifting her chin and pressing her mouth into a smile, trying not to give herself away. God, I've been so clueless. I've been so wrapped up in myself that I didn't even think about how this was affecting those around me. She was right in that message: there are so many things I don't know. There are more layers to this than I think, and the more I pull them all away, the more I find. Our stories are woven so intricately around one another that I hadn't even noticed how much so until this afternoon.

"I'm sorry I ignored your calls," I mumble.

She laughs and brings her hands back to my lap to hold my hand. "You already said that."

"But I didn't tell you why." Rachel stops laughing and laces our fingers once more. "After you told me that Puck was visiting B-Beth- Dammit. I can't even say her name without stuttering." Rachel winces at my outburst, but otherwise says nothing. "After you told me he was visiting her, I lost it. I felt as though I failed her once again. I could have seen her all this time, and yet I pushed her to the back of my mind so many times. I only focused on the fact that I got pregnant and gave birth. I didn't focus on the fact that she is a person. A _real_ person with a name, and a heart and a soul. If I spoke her name, if I even thought it, everything real. It made everything thing that disaster called 'Sophomore Year' true and I couldn't face that. I can't face it."

I stare off at the houses on the other side of the street, watching as the shadows change on them as the clouds move over the sun. I wonder if Shelby takes Beth to the park to stare at the clouds. Melanie and I used to do that as children, back before the pressures of school weighed down on each of us. I wonder if our family fascination with watching the clouds move over buildings has passed down to her.

"No one knows what you've gone through Quinn, or what you're going through." Her voice brings me back down to earth and back to our conversation. "While I'm glad you opened up to me and told me what was wrong instead of hiding from everyone, your feelings, whatever they may be, are of merit. I don't think anyone could have gone through what you did and come out as strong as you have. Just promise me this…" she trails off until I catch her eyes once more. "Promise me that the next time you feel like isolating yourself from the world, you would at least talk to me first. Just so you know that you are not alone. Just so you know that you'll always have me."

That cavernous hole in my chest is still there, but listening to her now makes it feel not as large as it was before.

"I'll try."

The smile Rachel gives me is the one I've seen in my dreams every single night. "That's good enough for me," is what she whispers before she pulls me into the longest, and warmest hug, she's given me yet.

When she pulls back, I say, "I wanna make it up to you."

She pushes her hand through my hair and laughs again. "Quinn, you don't have to—"

"I want to." Her eyes roll around her head playfully, but she smiles nonetheless. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Well, now that I'm not waiting for a certain blonde to call me," she prods with her elbow, "nothing."

"Would you like to come over to my house? And spend the night?"

I'm pretty sure her jaw hit the concrete from how far it fell from the rest of her face and her eyes widen in shock. "Are you serious, Quinn?"

"Only if you want to, of course."

"Of course I want to!" She leaps a bit too far from her position on the stairs, so when she encircles her arms around my neck, the force causes me to tumble sideways onto the stairs. She pulls back, slightly out of breath and her hair falling over her shoulders to put her hand on the side of my face. "I'm sorry for pushing you down, but I'm so excited!" In a much quieter tone, she adds, "Thank you so much Quinn."

When she leans down to give me another hug, I can't help but think that she's starting to smell like home too.

* * *

><p>- Logo is perhaps one of the only TV channels in the US that still plays <em>Daria<em>.

-The reference Quinn makes about the wallpaper is from _The Yellow Wallpaper_ by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. I don't want to give too much away, in case anyone wants to read it, but it is about a woman who finds herself staring at a wallpaper and after some time, begins to find it staring back at her.

-The title of this chapter is inspired by "Separation" by As I Lay Dying.


	11. Arms

"Rachel's coming over to stay the night." Mother has her back towards me, washing dishes out of the sink when she stops her movements and turns her head to look at me. This is the first time we've spoken since yesterday's breakfast and as much as I did my best to hide from her, I knew I had to confront her about Rachel eventually. She'll be gone for the majority of the time Rachel's here, but out of courtesy, I knew I had to mention her sometime.

She turns the water off slowly while the rest of her body follows her head to face me. "You know, there was a time when you would ask to have friends over."

Dropping my head, I ask, "Is it alright if Rachel spends the night?"

With two fingers, she lifts my chin up so I'm looking her in the eyes. "Yes, she can come over. You already invited her and I have no issues with your friends staying the night," Mother wipes her hands on a nearby towel and throws it by the sink when she's done. "I just wish you would have told me earlier so I could have prepared something for her to eat before I head off to work."

I bring my hand to move a few strands of hair out of my face, trying to come up with something to say in response. To be honest, I invited Rachel to come over later today because I was trying to delay her in meeting my mother. If I had my way around things, I would have Rachel avoid meeting my mother all together. I never know exactly where I stand with her and ever since my week of sulking around my room, it's been really difficult to judge where we are in our relationship. She hasn't confronted me on my actions so I haven't talked to her about them.

"I'll take a mattress out of one the guest bedroom and replace the one in your room. I ordered you a new one when I saw that the springs were loose yesterday, but since it hasn't come yet, I'll trade it in for one the spares."

Mother's words catch me off guard, reminding me of what a mess I made of my room and how much I had to clean it up. After speaking with Rachel yesterday, I came home to salvage what I didn't destroy in my room and clean up the rest so there wouldn't be any traces of my slip up. I wasn't able to fix everything, the mirror in my vanity is still cracked, but I taped it up so at least it looks as though I cracked it on accident. The bed, however, is another issue. No amount of duct tape could keep the coil from springing out of the mattress, ripping through the temporary binding each time I turned my back to fix something else. The more and more it popped out of place, the more and more frantic I became in my efforts to keep it hidden. It got to the point where I would run to the bed each time, yelling at the spring to stay down while pushing on it with my bare hands. When a jaded edge of the coil cut a fairly large 'C' in the center of my palm, I gave up in my efforts and went for a run to calm my nerves. At least running never lets me down. Still, it took a lot of effort to ignore the feeling of my blood traveling down my arm, only to hit the pavement with each stride.

"Thanks," I say distantly, pushing myself further away from my mother. If I remove myself from the conversation enough, I can almost pretend like last week didn't happen.

"Sweetie," she starts, pushing off the counter to move closer to me. I already know where this is going. "I'm not going to demand that you tell me what happened, but I am going to ask you if you want to talk to me about it."

I take a step back, creating an even greater distance between us. "I, uhm, I have to go and call Rachel," I stutter, "I can't pick her up because my car is still down so I have to—

"Quinnie listen to me for a moment," she grabs my wrists, preventing me from moving any farther away from her and cuts me off mid sentence. "I know things are different now… but I want you to know that you can always come to me. About anything."

My eyes are shifting around the room and her hands are becoming too restricting on my wrists. Every single sensation of her fingers around mine cause the neurons to fire back and forth in my brain, sending impulses to my hand to pull away that don't quite get there in time. I want to move, I want to move _so_ badly, but her hands encircling mine are keeping me still. When her fingers start moving up and down my forearm, it's enough for my nerves to reach my hands, so I pull away with a _snap_!, wringing my right wrist with my left hand.

"I have to go, Mom," my voice is barely above a whisper when I stumble back, hitting a chair with my hip, trying to get as far away from her as possible in the small space from the counter to the table. I've already spoken too much about what I was going through last week, and much like my feelings towards Beth, talking about it any further is only one more way to make it real. The fact that Mother already witnessed the mess I made of my bed is already real enough.

I have to get out of this room.

"She'll be here soon. I have to go," I mumble, leaving the room in a less than elegant way without looking back.

My breaths finally fall back into a rhythm when my back is resting on my door, hand gripping the handle, keeping it in place in case Mother tries to come in here once more. She's respected my privacy much more than she did over the past year, she hasn't come in my room in the middle of the night to 'check up' on me anymore, but I can't be too certain. I can't be too certain of anyone anymore, really.

That small crack where Leroy's voice is held tightly opens up once more and an unfamiliar voice spills out and penetrates my thoughts. Before I can figure out whose voice it is, it sounds familiar in an eerie sort of way, Rachel's ringtone comes from my bedside table. I'm hopping over to the left side of my bed and answering the phone just in time for the voice to dissipate into a smoke cloud.

"Hey, are you on your way? I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up." The wind is whipping on the other side of the phone, confirming my idea that she is on her way.

"It's fine. Although I really disapprove of talking on the phone while driving, yes I am," I imagine the look of concentration on her face, brow furrowed and bottom lip between her teeth, and I flop backwards on my bed, staring up at the ceiling with the image of Rachel projected upon it from my mind.

"I called because I am a bit confused. Do I make a left or a right on Wilson?" she continues. I really should have figured a way to pick her up. In addition to giving her directions, I wanted to de-brief her on how things with my mother are usually like. If I had driven her, I could have given Mother a simple "This is Rachel, we'll be upstairs now, bye" and that would have been that. But, now that she's coming on her own, I seriously doubt that's going to cut it.

"Take a left, then keep going until you get to Allen," I say with a sigh, placing my forearm over my eyes. The images of her concentrating disappear almost instantly from the ceiling.

"Got it," she confirms. "And please, curb your enthusiasm; you're going to have a heart attack if you keep sounding so cheerful."

Pushing off from my elbows, I say seriously, "I didn't mean it to sound like that. I was just—"

"No need to explain, Quinn. I was messing with you." Although I can't see her, I can tell she's smiling into the statement. It eases me, so I lean back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling once more. "Since I hate talking on the phone while driving, I'm going to leave you now, but I'll see you in a bit."

"Soon," I confirm.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes and a new mattress later, I'm sitting down on the foyer with my hand in my mouth when I hear a car pull up in the front. I'm sprinting off the bench and out the door before Rachel has even had a chance to leave her car. The enthusiasm on her face as she unbuckled herself and reaches in the back seat for her bag is infectious enough that for a split second, I forget all about my issues.<p>

"Hey girlfriend," she says as she greets me with a hug, her shoulder bag hitting me in the side as she wraps her arm around my neck. I momentarily loosen my grip around Rachel's neck at her choice of words, but remember a time not too long ago when she's greeted me with those exact same words.

"Hey yourself," I respond as I try and take the bag away from her. She resists at first, staring me down as I try and bring the bag out of her grasp, but she lets up with a smile on the corner of her lips. "Welcome to my house," I say as I sling the bag over my shoulder in success.

"I haven't actually gone inside, you know," she says, walking towards the front door ahead of me. "You can repeat that once I step foot inside the Fabray Manor."

I catch up to her once she reaches the stairs, trying to bring out as much courage as I can to get her inside the house and inside my room in a matter of minutes. Despite the fact that I want nothing more than for Rachel not to see my mother at all, getting her into my room is going to be an ordeal. Over the past 24 hours, I've done nothing but try to come up with ways to be around her so that I don't do something completely stupid. Being with Rachel in public is one thing, there aren't too many uncomfortable situations I can get into outside (not counting the 'pool incident') but being inside my bedroom where we'll no doubt share a bed? The mere idea is nerve wracking enough.

Pushing the door open, I extend my hand out, gesturing for her to enter ahead of me. Although I can only see her back, I can tell by the way her shoulders slump and her head drifts upward to stare at the ceiling that she's impressed. Most people are when then enter my house.

"Wow," she says slowly, turning her head in every direction to gape at the different pieces that line the walls. I watch her with interest as she takes in everything from the red and gold drapes that hang from the large windows to the large, spiraling staircase off the side of said windows. She makes her way to the bench I was sitting on a little while ago in the foyer and thumbs the gold lines stitched into the pattern.

"Welcome to my house," I whisper in her ear, brining her attention away from the gold and back to me. She beams, winding a hand down to wrap around my wrist until she is cradling my hand in her own. A sound escapes her lips and she stands on her toes,

"You home is beautiful, Quinn," she says, her breath warm yet cool upon my cheek. I tighten the grip on her bag to squash the feeling below my navel and nudge her towards the stairs.

"This way." Rachel slides her hand one last time over the gold stitching before moving to follow me. The photographs on the walls haven't been replaced, and she not doubt can see the where the wallpaper has faded around the square and rectangle outlines on the wall, but Rachel's eyes are focused once again on the gold pattern in the drapes. As long as we make it upstairs quickly without any interruptions, we'll hopefully be able to avoid—

"Quinnie! Come back down here, I want to meet your friend!"

—my mother. Dammit.

Rachel's head snaps towards me as I glumly turn around on the stairs.

"_Quinnie?_" She says slowly, with a hint of a smile breaking free at the end of her question. I shrug, rolling my eyes as she continues to mouth the word to herself. The last thing I need is for one more person to call me that name. "You didn't tell me your mother was home. I would love to meet her!" There is slight annoyance in Rachel's voice, but enough enthusiasm to mask it.

"Must've slipped my mind."

She practically runs down the stairs while I take my time trudging down each individual step to prolong this encounter. Maybe if Mother will see how reluctant I am to having this little 'pow wow' between the two of them, she'll let us leave faster. I'll do just about anything to get out of this awkward situation.

Rachel hesitates once we stand in the archway of the foyer, unaware of which way to turn, so I take the lead and push forward until we're in the kitchen. Like most days, Mother is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her and a magazine at her side. She's cleaned up in the last few minutes, taking the time to apply more makeup to mask the circles under her eyes from long nights and even longer mornings.

At least we have something in common.

Mother stands abruptly from her place at the table, a smile erupting over her face to hide any stray traces of her earlier disappointment from me, and clasps her hands under her chin once Rachel trails in behind me. Beside me, Rachel looks from my mother to me, probably noting the physical similarities between the two of us.

"So you're the one that's been stealing my daughter away," Mother holds her arms out, rounding the table until she's in front of us, and motions Rachel for an embrace. "Nice to see you again, Sweetie."

Rachel's face shortly falls at my mother's words, but once she realizes that she is joking, a smile takes over her and she runs into my mother's arms. With her eyes shut, Mother leans down, encasing Rachel's small figure into a strong hug. By the way Mother's laugh lines are showing so woefully, it almost looks as though she's holding on tight enough so that she can somehow vicariously hug me through Rachel.

"Don't worry," Rachel comments as she pulls away, still holding onto my mother's hands, "I'll give her back when I'm done, Mrs. Fabray."

A flush moves its way across the bridge of my nose, while I shuffle, momentarily at a loss by Rachel's utterance. Mother, by contrast, drops her hands at Rachel's 'Mrs.' and leans back against the table, folding her arms. "Call me Judy."

Rachel turns to me, giving me a small, unexpected smile. "Judy it is."

"So," she starts, bringing the cup to her lips and taking a long sip, "What do you girls have planned for the evening?" Rachel steps back until she is in line with me once again. "I wish I could stay, but, we all have to work sometime."

It surprises me when Mother doesn't mention to Rachel that I didn't exactly tell her that she was coming, so I speak up for the first time,

"Watch TV, make popcorn, prank call people at midnight," I catch Mother's eyes briefly before looking at Rachel. "You know: normal girl stuff."

"Talk about boys," Mother says thoughtfully. She raises her eyebrow at Rachel, hoping to get her to talk about a boy she has an interest in, but Rachel shyly looks to the ground.

"We're gonna go now," Forcefully, I grip the strap of Rachel's bag around my shoulder, spinning on my heel to catch Rachel's attention. "Bye Mom."

"It was lovely meeting you again. Well, for the first time, really." Before I can stop her, Rachel's running into my mother's arms once again, pulling her in for a hug. I angle my head to look at them, but turn back around with a huff. This is way too sentimental for me. All I want to do is leave, get Rachel up to my room and…and…well, I haven't really figured that out yet, but I'll get there when I get there.

Rachel returns to the side opposite to the bag, tapping me lightly with her fingers, and links her arm through mine. I should be worried about this level of intimacy in front of my mother and I should be worried about the way heat is traveling up my neck to converge at my cheeks, but at the way Rachel absentmindedly plays with the top of my loose skirt, it doesn't even matter. The tips of her fingers are occasionally skimming the little section of skin where my skirt has fallen down slightly, making it so that every sensation in that area is heightened to an insane degree. When the pad of her thumb rolls over my hip bone, I have to wrench my eyes away from the innocent smile plastered on her lips.

"Have fun girls!" Mother calls out as we make our way out of the kitchen. When we get to the base of the stairs, Rachel unlinks her arm with me and walks up in awe, her eyes traveling around the ceiling at the various fixtures that hang from them. Watching her look like a kid in a candy store is by far the cutest thing I've seen in a long time.

When we reach the top, I nudge her towards the last room on the right, pointing my arm at the door that's slightly ajar. She looks to me for permission to enter and I nod, biting my lip in the process. Although I've had many people over at my house, the result of many Cheerios gatherings around my hot tub, only a handful of people are allowed in there. When I moved back in with my mother, this room was the one place that I missed the most and I was ecstatic when I saw that she keeps it the same. My room is my sanctum, the only place I can do as much as I want without judgment. From myself or others. Despite the minor blip last week, it was the only place where I could think freely without my personal life catching up to me. I actually think yesterday was the first time Mercedes was ever in my room.

"Woah," Rachel breathes once she crosses the threshold. Unlike the rest of the house, that is ostentatious and filled with a lot of ornate, unnecessary items, my room is simple. Simple, cream colored wallpaper with a few patterns dispersed here and there across the wall and over the ceiling as well. It's large, more than twice the size of her room, with a bathroom tucked away on the left. Aside from the bed, the vanity, a desk and a few chairs around the room, there aren't really too many big items my room. The one thing, however, that catches Rachel's attention, is my bookcase.

Part of it is built into the wall, going floor to ceiling filled with books from my childhood and books that I've read more recently, and when I ran out of space there, I had an extension built. It's not attached to the bookcase built into the wall, but it is moveable, allowing me to put it anywhere in the room I so chose. I gently place Rachel's bag on my bed and she runs over to the shelf, looking over the various titles, running her fingers along some of the larger books.

"You weren't kidding when you said you liked to read," she is still facing the shelf, her back towards me, so I walk up beside her, taking in her enthusiasm. I smile, bringing a hand to my hair, pushing it back.

"Yeah," I chuckle out, "I love to read."

"Would you mind if I called you 'Belle'?" I knit my brow together when she turns her head to me. "_Beauty and the Beast_," she clarifies. "As a child I watched only a handful of Disney films, but _Beauty and the Beast_ stuck out to me. Belle loved to read, just like you."

Stepping closer to the shelf to fix some of the books that Rachel moved out of order, I say, "You do realize that 'Belle' in French means—"

"Beautiful." Rachel says the word so surely with confidence, as if it's so obvious and plain to see. "Believe me, the meaning wasn't lost on me Quinn." She leans forward, brushing her hands against the side of my ear to trail her hands along my cheek. "A passion for reading isn't the only thing you two have in common."

The space where her fingers were grazing on my hip earlier has extended its reach to the full length of my body, and the way the impulses are firing through me, I'm amazed I haven't turned into a firework. Rachel's eyes light up as she brings her attention back to the books and my eyes glance down to her lips as she parts them to say something.

"What's _Nurse Matilda_ about? It looks like a children's book." She picks up one of the books that Mercedes brought to my room yesterday and opens the front cover. The other two books in the series are lying on a shelf without a place to go, since they've been in the attic for the last few years.

I pick up the other books and push them in the corner, trying to make room for them amongst the Tolstoy and Nietzsche. "It is a children's book," I say, pulling the one from her hand and pushing it in with the rest. "It's about this Nurse, or Nanny, that goes to live with these unruly kids. Think of it as an early version of _Nanny 911_." Rachel laughs, moving over to scan the other books on the shelf. Once satisfied with where I've placed the books, I turn to Rachel, pushing the glasses case that's lying near her fingertips to the back of the shelf. "My mother used to read them all the time when I was younger. They were Lucy's favorite."

"Why do you always do that?" The tone in her voice is something I'm not used to, and it actually sounds like she's annoyed.

"Why do I always do what?" I ask honestly, worry escaping me with each word.

"'I'm not going back to Lucy', 'That was Lucy's favorite show', 'Those were Lucy's favorite books,'" she folds her arms over her chest. "You make it seem as though you're not the same person."

I cock my head ever so slightly to the left, trying to understand exactly what she is saying. Mimicking her actions, I fold my arms over my chest. Not in anger, but attempting to match her intensity. "Because we're not."

The emotions seem to melt off of her as her arms fall to the side. She changes from quasi-anger to what looks like pity. She stares into my eyes, searchingly, as if she's looking towards the crack in my mind where I keep everything hidden. Her eyes flutter around my face before she settles on my eyes once again.

"You don't even realize you do it, do you?"

This is not at all how I wanted this to go. This isn't the normal 'Rachel-stare' – this is something entirely different. I blink a few times, unsure of what to do. I wish the question was rhetorical, but knowing Rachel, I know she's expecting an answer. I suppose on some level, I know that when I refer to my younger-self, I do separate it from my current self. But, doesn't everyone do that? I certainly am not the girl I was six years, so why pretend like I am?

"Do you want to watch a movie?" I'm deflecting, and I know she'll sense it by my awkward proposition, but it's the first thing that flies out of my mouth that sounds remotely normal. Rachel looks at me for just a beat longer, shakes her head faintly, and puts on a smile.

"Only if you have _Beauty and the Beast_," she says, ducking her head low before bringing it up to me again. I can tell that the smile on her face is her way of telling me know that she's letting our conversation go.

Smiling, trying to lighten the mood, I answer, "I think I've got that somewhere."

* * *

><p>"Okay, you are not trying to convince me that Esmeralda is more of a badass than Mulan. We're we even watching the same films?"<p>

"I'll admit that I've only seen bits and pieces of _Mulan_, but Esmeralda stood up for her people and fought for what she believed in—"

"And your point is invalid because you haven't even seen the movie. Mulan fought for her country, cross-dressed and won over the Emperor of China. Esmeralda was a thief, a vagrant and occasionally a-"

I receive a blow to the head by one of the neck pillows from the recliner underneath her. Hair mussed, I turn to Rachel, who still has her arm in the air, but is also now sporting a smug grin. After _Beauty and the Beast_, I decided to broaden her Disney knowledge and we were deciding between _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and _Mulan_ when she began her long tirade on how 'courageous and cunning' Esmeralda was. When I voiced my opinion for Mulan being my favorite Princess, she began to lose it.

"I'll blame your strict, Catholic upbringing for your dislike of her. I believe the antagonist, Frollo, was Catholic as well," she notes, fondling her hands neatly in her lap.

"One: that is so wrong. It has nothing to do with my religion," I hold my finger in the air playfully. "Two: you can hit me all you want, Rachel, but once you see _Mulan_, there will be no doubt in her mind who is better." Taking the pillow she just hit me with, I fluff it some and put it behind my head, using it for support as I lean back into my seat.

Rachel follows my movements, leaning back in her seat and staring at the many film options in front of her on the large screen. I don't have a television in my room, I prefer to keep it a haven of books, so Rachel and I have been held up in the Movie Room in the lower half of the house ever since. Initially, Rachel was astounded (and jealous) to find a place in Lima that rivals her parents Oscar Room, but once she took a look at the popcorn machine and cotton candy maker on the side, she forgot all about her parents' and dove into the center-most seat in the third row. She melted into the large blue and silver recliners, pushing her chair back far enough so that she could adjust the pillow under her neck to her linking and hitched up the foot rest to lie back almost perfectly.

She commented several times during _The Lion King_ how she may never leave my house.

"You know, she's kind of always reminded me of Santana in a weird way," she's using the remote control to cycle through the selection of films, squinting her eyes to get a better look.

"Seriously?" I ask. "Well, she does steal things, so I guess that makes sense."

"I mean her personality," Rachel says seriously. "They're both strong willed and they stand up for their rights. I'm still amazed she's working with David on the Bully Whips." She nods her head at her own conclusion. "Plus that purple headband she wore during our Funk performance last year always reminded me of Esmeralda."

"You're also forgetting the fact that Esmeralda was good with a stick and I vaguely remember you telling Santana something about her working a pole in her near future…" I turn my head slowly, watching the color drain from her face with each of her inhales. "Ring any bells?"

Rachel simply rolls her eyes and shoves more popcorn into her mouth, ignoring my prodding when I poke a finger in her side. She flips through more films in the Children's Section, complaining about Disney's habit of making the woman seem like 'damsels in distress' for most of their earlier films, and eventually gives up completely.

Standing, popcorn bucket tucked safely in the crook of her arm, she holds her hand out, "Let's go upstairs now. As comfortable as these chairs are, I have a feeling if I fall asleep in this dark room, I may have a panic attack when I wake up."

Being in the Movie Room, separated by an armrest with two ultra-large cup holders, gave my mind the freedom to relax without being on-edge about her all the time. But watching as she stands above me, holding her arm out while the screen casts gentle shadows across her face, that on-edge feeling is back in full force.

I take another bite of my cotton candy, hoping the sugary substance would somehow melt into confidence on my tongue, before I reach out and place my hand in hers.

"Sure," I answer shakily. We make our way out of the basement, closing down the 'Theater', and bringing up extra snacks from the kitchen as we pass it. Rachel takes her time trudging up each step, holding onto the railing as she does so, in case she slips. We have been watching movies for a few hours now, it's a little past eleven, and I know from many phone conversations with her that she doesn't stay up much later than twelve. A combination of the movies we watched and the drive over here, I know she'll be asleep in no time… wait. Sleep. We're supposed to _sleep_ at a _sleep_over.

Dammit. The entire 'sleeping' part of a 'sleepover' has pretty much been lost on me. Last week I was able to sleep more than I normally have, seeing as how I did nothing but stare at the wall for hours at a time, but actually sleeping next to Rachel is a fairly new concept. I've fallen asleep in her presence before – several occasions, embarrassingly enough – but never in my house. Let alone in _my_ bed, where I've had a number of not so friend-like dreams about her that have forced me to spring from my bed in the middle of the night, pacing around my room until the feeling of her legs tangled with mine goes away.

Rachel, who already entered the room before me, throws herself onto the bed while grabbing one of the many decorative pillows I put out for this special occasion. She attaches herself to a rectangular, dark purple pillow with a black star embellished the middle (one of the many things Mother brought back to life from the attic), burying her head in it until her hair is spread out over the top of my comforter. Grabbing my laptop from the bookshelf, I sit on the edge of the bed, noting the way the bed shifts when Rachel moves behind me.

"If someone had told me Freshman year that I would end up spending the night at Quinn Fabray's house, I don't think I would have ever believed them." Her voice is low, but loud enough to get me to stop my movements and face her. Rachel's brought her hand to the star, rubbing it lightly with her index finger while she stares at bedspread.

"If someone told me Freshman year that Rachel Berry would have become one of my best friends, I don't think I would have believed them," I answer honestly, "but I'm glad that you are."

It's Rachel's ears that perk up first, followed by her lips that fall in line with her ears until her whole face follows suit. She smiles without teeth until color becomes apparent in her cheeks, so she buries her head further into the pillow, attempting to hide her smile from me. I grab onto her ankle, running my fingers up and down the small space for a few seconds, waiting for a response from her. She doesn't move at first, but she doesn't protest either, so I continue with my movements, trailing my worn, manicured hand over the area between her heel and the top of her ankle. I know I shouldn't, I know I _really_ shouldn't, but my hand picks up speed as I increase the area slightly, running the back of my nails along the smaller part of her calf. My eyes are fixated on the way her body is responding and I watch as tiny bumps form. Alternating between trailing the back of my nails over her leg and grazing lightly with the faintest pressure from my fingers, I increase the area once more, making it almost all the way up to her knee. A few more inches higher, and I'll be right where her skirt ends.

A curious thing happens when my hand makes its way to the back of her calf: she lets out a noise I've never heard before. It's light, and airy, and it makes me think it's what sunrise should sound like. The break of dawn over the horizon is carried out in that one little noise she made. My eyes travel to her mouth, at the source of the whimper, and I find that it's open, the slightest bit of tongue visible from my position. On instinct, I trail my hand back over the same spot on the back of her leg, slowly working my fingertips up in a curved motion. It takes her by surprise, and the noise comes out again, only this time it leaves her mouth as a gasp and ends as a whimper when she bites down on her lip.

_Jesus Christ in Heaven._

That familiar jolt from Rachel's pool shoots up through me, and like the last time, I'm unprepared for it so, my hand hastily (and shakily) pushes its way up Rachel's leg and lands her thigh. Rachel's eyes open and they immediately fly to my hand that's still underneath her skirt. Her eyes find mine and we have a sort of stare-off. She's looking up at me from the pillow, my hand still barely underneath her skirt, resting rigidly on her thigh, and her eyes seem to brighten after each second. The dim light of my lamp gives me just enough light to see the energy behind her eyes, the pure force behind them is enough to make me crumple under her gaze. In contrast to her eyes, which seem to be filled with so much vigor, her body has slackened on my bed, looking as though she's claimed it for her own. I can't seem to keep up with her from my tense position and I'm only aware that my mouth has been hanging open by how dry my lips have become in such a short space of time.

"I'm going to change my clothes now."

Her voice is barely there and if there were any other sounds in the room, I know I wouldn't be able to hear her clearly. I remove my hand from off of her, placing it in my lap and covering it with my free hand. My eyes remain on my clasped hands, not even looking up when I feel Rachel's body leave the bed or hear the door of my bathroom shut close. When the sound of running water from the sink hits my ears, I flop backwards on the bed, bringing my nails to drag through my scalp.

God, what is _wrong_ with me? I… I _touched_ her. I ran my hand along her body, a very short are of her body admittedly, but enough to illicit a response from her. I took this way beyond friendship and it's barely – lifting my body from the bed, I wrap my head around to my nightstand to look at the clock – midnight? We got up here at 11:15, I couldn't have spent the last forty-five minutes getting handsy with Rachel's bare leg. Could I?

The mere idea of Rachel's bare _anything_ sends another, more powerful jolt through the apex of my thighs and right up through my chest. Folding my hands, I roughly jut my wrists down to the space between my thighs in an attempt to stifle the pain and I – _ah_. Bad idea, bad idea. It's as if I switched from a 15 watt light bulb to a 75 watt when my wrists come in contact with the space, sending my head back onto the bed with a movement so jerky the muscles in my neck briefly spasm. Against my closed lids, Rachel's bikini-clad body surfaces while the memories of that day along with the events of my dreams over the last week play over and over. The feel of her thigh pressed against me combined with each and every compromising position my subconscious created is enough to force me to roll to one side, closing my legs tightly together.

I wrench my eyes open, not trusting the images in my head, and stare out the wallpaper once again. At least this time it's not in anguish. But, looking down at the contorted version of my body, I don't know whether I'd rather be in anguish or frustration. Great. I can already tell I've ruined my underwear.

"You're still in your regular clothes."

Pulling up slightly, I lean my head to the side to catch a view of Rachel standing in the doorway of my bathroom, bag over her shoulder and toothbrush in hand. She's wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt with a dark pair of shorts, ruffling her hair at the back where a part of it is sticking up. She places her bag gently down on the ground, while I sit up from my position, trying to keep my face in check. Judging by the heat I'm feeling, I know I'm not doing a good job of it.

"Please don't tell me you sleep in dresses, too," she jokes, coming to lean on the opposite side of the bed from me. Clothes. Sleeping clothes.

"No, I don't actually," I muster up some playfulness inside of me and push off the bed, "but I'm pleased to see that you don't sleep in low-cut skirts."

While I make my way to my drawer, I hear Rachel scoff behind me. "My skirts are not all that short."

"You've got to be kidding me," I say over my shoulder.

"Your cheerleading skirts were much shorter than all of mine," I can hear the eye roll in her voice.

"Yes, because we use them for athletics," Grabbing a long t-shirt, I debate on going for a long pair of pants or shorts. It's somewhat hot, so shorts would be the way to go, but being hot is the last thing I want to be right now. "You wouldn't throw a girl in the air or do a forward tumble with a long skirt, would you? Besides, your skirts are ridiculously short."

"You know, Quinn, I vaguely remember someone telling me that 'it's all about the teasing and not about the pleasing'," she says it so slow that my hand momentarily fumbles on a pair of shorts and I accidentally hip-check the dresser. Is she implying that she's intentionally teasing me? "Ring any bells?"

Rachel sticks out her tongue when I turn around to face her and I grab the first pair of bottoms (and a new pair of underwear discreetly) that my hands come to contact with. Pointing a finger at her, I say, "You win this round, Rachel, but don't think that you're off the hook completely."

She laughs as I shuffle into the bathroom, effectively concealing the underwear between the shirt and bottoms. Once the bathroom door closes behind me, I see that I've grabbed the longest pair of shorts I own. Sadly, because of all my 'teasing and not the pleasing years', they're still relatively short. Inspecting the underwear, I'm glad I at least grabbed one with plain dark print and not something embarrassing like my floral print ones.

It's not like Rachel's going to see it anyway. Changing quickly, I toss my regular clothes in the hamper and splash some water on my face before I head back into the room. Rachel has her back against the headboard, scrolling the attachable mouse on my laptop with vigor. When I cross her path to get to the vanity, she comments,

"It's surprising that my old Myspace page is one of your most visited websites." _Shit_. I should have cleared my browsing history. Through the mirror, I see that Rachel's still scrolling away at whatever she has on the screen. "Actually, now that I think about it, you were my most frequented commentator. Even if your comments were less than constructive, you did come to my page often." She lifts her head up to look at me through the mirror as well. "What's surprising is that more than two years later, you still seem to be the most frequented visitor."

I don't like that coy grin that spreads its way across her face.

"Alright, that's it. You're internet searching privileges have been revoked." As I move across the floor holding my hand out for the laptop, Rachel closes it and holds it to her chest. When I reach the side of the bed she's resting on, tapping my foot in mock-impatience, she brings her knees to her chest, cradling the computer between her arms and legs.

"It's rude to invite someone to your house and then tell them they're not allowed to use certain things," her eyebrow raises and she smiles, mocking me as I stand with one hand on my hip.

"And it's rude to go through peoples' browsing history," I clarify, smiling as well, "now give me the computer." I shake my hand out in emphasis, watching as she curls her fingers over the ends of her shirt.

"Come and get it."

A very primitive part of my brain takes over, Freud would call it the Id, and with dexterity I have never known myself to possess, I pull Rachel's left leg down along the mattress while simultaneously resting my leg hand on the side of her head. Her body slides down the bed and in one fluid motion, I push myself over the mattress, leaning down just enough so that we are face to face but my chest is not resting on the computer that's still clutched to her chest. My knees are resting on either side of her hips and her breath is coming out in short bursts, waiting for me to make the next move. Once again, in a matter of twenty minutes, I have managed to take this beyond friendship and put us in a place we've never been in before. Her eyes come alive again while my body starts to crumble. The primitive side has decided to lay dormant and I'm left trying to come up with a solution to this situation. I'm trying so desperately not to look into the way she rakes her eyes over our position too much.

She releases the grip she has on my computer and puts it down on the carpet, all without taking her eyes off of me. Rachel brings her tongue out to swipe across her bottom lip before she exhales one more time.

"You know, you can ki—"

Rachel's hand flies up to her mouth before she can finish her statement and fear flashes beyond the liveliness of her eyes. I pull up, sensing that now I have officially made this sleepover into something it shouldn't be, but the hand she had on her mouth is now at the back of my neck. The vigor is back in her eyes, but there are still flecks of fear inside, and her fingers begin to graze up and down my neck. The movements alone are enough for heat to build up inside my chest, making its way up to my face and down to my center. My arms are beginning to quake and I'm afraid that if I hold this position above her for too long, I'm going to collapse on top of her.

She's moving. Rachel raises her left hand so that it's resting delicately on the curve of my stomach, her fingers spaced apart while her thumb traces circles on my underside. She pulls my neck down a few more centimeters before she starts to move again, pulling her head towards me. As her face zeroes in on mine, it's only then that I realize that it's not her breath coming out in short bursts. But mine. I can make out every single beauty mark that graces her face, down to the mark on her left cheek as she draws impossibly closer to me. Her fingers on my side are no longer idle, and as she begins to move them in a circular motion, I finally realize her intent.

Rachel's lips find my neck and she gives me a long, wet raspberry while the fingers of her right hand tickle my stomach relentlessly. I should be self-conscious about the unattractive high-pitched giggles that escape me, but I'm more concerned about not crushing Rachel underneath me. Erratically, I try to move to one side when Rachel takes the reins and moves me off to one side, pushing herself on top of me and continuing her assault.

"Ple-please stop! I can't feel my- pfttttt- my stomach hurts!" There's a ringing in my ears that I can't shake each time she leans forward to plant another raspberry on my neck, allowing just the right amount of lip and tongue to simultaneously make me want to toss her off of me and keep her pinned here. If the need to maintain air in my lungs weren't so great, I'd be more than willing to keep our current position. As long as 'Awkward!Quinn' doesn't emerge. "Rachel!"

Her hands leave my sides, but they grab onto my wrists and pull them upward over my head. I'm too tired to remove my hands, so when she holds onto both of them with one hand, I don't have enough strength to pull away from her. With her free hand, she pushes my head to the left side, exposing the side of my neck that she attacked insistently. Rachel runs two fingers along my skin, her eyes widening each time she slides her fingers down. She leans forward, pushing her weight onto her knees when she does so.

"You bruise easily," she examines what I expect to be a mark on my neck. A slight quirk of her lips lets me know that there is a discoloration on the spot where her lips met my neck.

"Perfect," I huff. "Just another thing for Mercedes and Santana to make fun of me about." I roll my head back to where it originally was, making it so that I'm looking Rachel directly in the eyes since she's moved closer to my neck. Rachel, noting out proximity, leans backwards on her heels, sitting on my lap and releasing my hands in the process.

Grabbing onto the ends of her shirt once more, dropping her hands in her lap, she questions, "Why are Santana and Mercedes making fun of you?"

Pointing out the obvious here - the fact that she's leaning back on my waist with a pair of short shorts, her hair a mess and the urge that I have to recite The Lord's Prayer - would be detrimental to my situation.

I settle on, "It's Santana and Mercedes. Do they really need a reason to make fun of anyone?"

She gives a half-hearted shrug and rolls off to my right, urging me to lift my hips when she pulls the comforter over her legs. I oblige, passing her the pillow with the star stitched in the center after I become situated. The only light in the room is coming from her side of the bed, so when she leans over and extinguishes it, we are immersed in darkness; the only saving grace coming from the moon shining faintly in the distance.

I'm grateful for the darkness. It's my shield, engulfing and protecting the way my body reacts to being beside her. My bed is large enough to keep us at a distance, and although my mind knows that she's far enough away so that we aren't touching, the rest of my body hasn't caught up on that fact. There's a slow burn making its way up my thighs, stopping in the center of my chest to set my heart aflame. My hands are gripping the sheets tighter as I feel Rachel rustle beside me, presumably moving from her side onto her back.

From the corner of my eye, I can see that we're both staring up at the ceiling. Her hands are folded over her midsection while mine are turning white from how tightly I'm gripping the comforter. It shouldn't be this hard. I've slept in the bed with several of my friends before, closer than this even, and yet I can barely breathe from how intimate this seems to me. The darkness I'm grateful for… but the silence? Not so much.

Perhaps it's because in the silence, all is revealed. Lying here in the darkness and just _being_ without music makes me feel more vulnerable than I ever have with her. In the silence, I have nothing to hide behind when it's comes to what's not being said. There are no carefully, calculated words for me to fall back on and use for my own will. Instead there is only the sound of my own haggard breath, trying to calm my nerves down. Here and now, I don't know how I'll survive if this kee—

"Have you given any thought to what you'll do after High School?"

The lightness in Rachel's voice is enough to break me from my temporary stupor. Rolling my head to the side, I look towards the wall on the opposite side of the room to focus on. Rachel is still facing the ceiling, but I can feel the weight of the question through her immediate silence after she spoke. She laid the question out with such lightness yet such intensity that I can tell she's been waiting for the right moment to ask it.

My fingers loosen around the comforter and I whisper, "I have a little…but not too much." My eyes move from the wall to Rachel's face, slightly illuminated by the moon. Her lips are pursed as she waits for me to finish, knowing there's more. "I've learned not to live so much in the future than the present."

She nods, but I know it's only out of politeness. There's just enough light on her face to see how she closes her lids slightly at my words. I also don't miss the sigh she gives me. Reluctantly, I go on, "I spent the last half of my Junior Year trying to fulfill some pipe dream of winning Prom Queen and all I got was dumped, mono and public humiliation at the Prom. If there's anything I learned, it's to not live too much in the future." I pause to gather my thoughts, trying to formulate exactly the right words. "I've learned that I have to live for the now rather than in the future. I haven't given up on my future, but I'm trying to enjoy everything now and not plan out everything in its entirety."

I'm met with more silence. Rachel's features have loosened, but her eyes are still trained on the ceiling ahead. I would have almost thought that she was ignoring me if I didn't feel the faintest touch from her on my arm. Her hand travels down towards my hand, cupping me until we are linking fingers across my bed. Rachel turns to look me in the eye and smiles into the sentence,

"It seems we both need to learn to live in the present. As you know, I have a penchant for living in the future and planning out every aspect of my life." Rachel smiles and the sunrise has traveled from her voice to her eyes. It's my beacon in the darkness and I'm drawn to it, breathing it in. "I'm glad I've decided to start living in the present as well," she moves closer to me, making it so that we are lying side by side. "Unexpected things, like friendships, happen when you live in the present."

Rachel nudges me with her knee, pushing me until I am lying on my side, staring at the wall once more. I'm about to push back onto my back so I can see the sunrise once again until I feel her pressed into my back, moving so that she's right on me. She wraps me up in her arms, breathing into my hair when she fits her head into the crook of my neck. I'm on alert, my nerves messes as she tightens her hold on my midsection, but when I feel Rachel's rhythmic breath mixing with my own, my nerves subside.

It's a strange feeling, but our breaths have become one. She may have been the cause of my irregular breathing, but she seems to also be the solution. We are inhaling and exhaling as one, and for the second time in my life, I don't think I've ever been this connected to another person's breathing.

"I'm so grateful that I get to live in the present with you."

Her words melt into my ear and a calmness washes over me as I feel myself falling asleep.

"Goodnight, Rachel," I whisper.

"Goodnight… Belle."

* * *

><p>- <em>Nurse Matilda<em> is a series of Children's Books written by Christianna Brand.

- Sigmund Freud theorized that the Id is one of three parts of the human psyche, controlling the 'primitive desires and urges'.

- To give someone a 'raspberry' is to blow out of your lips, rolling them on the other persons skin. Sometimes with tongue as well.

- The title of this Chapter is inspired by "In the Arms of Mercy" by Times of Grace.


	12. Rojo

**Author's Note**: Again, thank you for all of your support.

* * *

><p>I know it's a dream from the moment I cross the threshold into Rachel's house. For one thing, I stepped through the door of my own home, only to find Rachel's Grandfather clock to my left. Still, I continue walking, following the sound of instrumental music that melts its way into my core with each and every note. It's daytime and the sun is shining throughout the house, yet when I pass by a window, I feel neither hot nor cold. The sun is illuminating the furniture, highlighting it with its rays, but because of some flaw in my subconscious, I can't feel any of it.<p>

I find myself standing in front of the open patio door, looking out onto an empty pool, save for the few inflatable tubes around the outside. Aside from the music, it's quiet, and not even the birds that are perched upon the trees in the yard are making a sound. It's 'picture perfect', for lack of a better cliché, and I can't help but feel like I don't belong here. The sun continues to shine, yet keeping its warmth all to itself as I stand in the in-between, not moving out onto the patio or moving back in the house. I don't want to ruin anything with my imperfections, so I stand, waiting for something to happen. The music fades into something heavier, still instrumental, but there are more complex rhythms involved. Heavier hitting drum repetitions and a powerful baseline enter the cornucopia of instruments coming from the speakers that are cleverly concealed by the shrubbery in the yard.

_"Where's Rachel?"_ I think to myself while scanning my eyes around, looking for any sign of her.

"Don't tell me you lost her already, Quinn." The music begins to lull as a voice breaks through the crescendo, taking over the void the music has left not only in the yard but in my mind. I turn my head to the right, looking for a clue as to where the voice could have originated, when Leroy comes up from behind me carrying in a tray filled with food. My instinct is to run and jerk away from him, but my limbs are working on their own. I can feel the urge to move inside me, yet my body doesn't want the same thing. Leroy smiles at me – now I know it's _definitely_ a dream – and cocks his head to one side of the pool where a table has appeared. "Rachel's been looking for you all afternoon, Hon," he winks at me in a knowing fashion. Even in a dream, fear seeps through me, coating my brain and latching on like a leech. As if Leroy can see what his presence does to me, he reaches out, placing his arm on my shoulder.

The smile on his face grows into one similar to the smile he gives to his daughter. It's not quite the same, but close enough for me to wish that it were real. "If you can't find her, I'm sure she'll find you," patting me, he pushes me to walk with him down further on the patio. "Rachel knows what she wants," he says, setting down the tray, "and if she wants to find you, she'll come get you."

It's like she's some ubiquitous entity that I cannot see no matter how hard I try, permeating not only my thought, but everything around me. She's not even here yet I can feel her presence. I turn around to face the pool, hoping that she would somehow be in there, but when I'm met with a pool that hasn't been touched, I turn back around with slumped shoulders.

Leroy's gone, and if this weren't a dream, I would have probably already run away, but since it is, I remain in my spot. Confused, and slightly dazed, I walk around to the other side of the table where a single chair has been placed, reaching out for a piece of fruit before I take my seat. In some ironic twist, all of the food Leroy had prepared has changed into fruit; the consistency is turning over on my tongue as the Tempeh Wrap slowly changes to strawberries. It's such a strange thing, though, to feel the consistency change, but not to taste the change. Much like the sunlight, I know it's there, and I know it should be hot, yet I don't feel a thing. I can feel the strawberries on my tongue, feel the way they slide down my throat when I swallow, yet I can't taste anything. I begin to grab onto more berries, trying to taste something, but all I get is nothing; nothing but the taste of pure want.

"Maybe if you really say what you want, you'll get it." _There!_

"Rachel?" Standing to my feet, I call out, searching for the origin of her voice.

"How do you expect to fully enjoy something when you don't even allow yourself to indulge a little?" Still nothing but the sun.

"Where are you?" I ask, walking towards the edge of the pool. Her voice, despite the fact that I can't see it, is the only thing that makes sense in this place.

"Right here."

A slight stinging sensation, accompanied a sharp poke, hits me in the center of my chest and Rachel's finger materializes at the source. The rest of her comes in quickly, filling the empty space in front of me in a frenzy of gold stars. When she's there, all there, a smile forms at the edge of her lips. "Hi," she whispers, finally removing her hand from my chest.

My arms slip around her shoulders before the rest of her smile fills her face. I pull my body flush against hers, hugging her as tightly as I possibly can. My hands are clawing at her frantically, like I haven't seen her in days and I'm trying my hardest to remember what she feels like. When I saw Rachel standing on her doorstep after a week of not talking to her, I wanted nothing more than to run up to her and hug her, but my insecurities and self-doubt guided my movements. Now, in this world that my unconscious has created for me, I allow myself to hold onto her like I want to. Like I've wanted to for some time now, actually. The fear is still there, still in the base of my skull trying to get through, but I think the longer I stand here, my elbows threateningly tight around Rachel's neck, the longer I can block them out enough until they're nothing more than a whisper.

Eventually, Rachel slips one arm around to hold me while I desperately cling to her. I've been too focused on my own sensations on her that I haven't relaxed enough to feel her on me. I don't get a chance to relax, however, because Rachel moves, making my arms fall to my side as she holds her hands out to me.

"Come on," With an airy voice, my hand is in hers before I realize that were moving through her house. Her house is a blur as she pushes us quickly up the stairs, pulling me along while I try and regulate my breathing. We're moving fast, yet slow at the same time, going through her house at a pace that I would never be able to maintain in real life. Rachel's hair is bouncing in front of me and the child-like smile she gives me when she looks behind her every few seconds is enough for a smile of my own to form.

There's laughter. And light. And the faint pressure Rachel's thumb is making on the back of my hand, reminding me that she's here.

We make it to her room, and as she opens the door with so much energy that it looks like it's about to come off the hinges. Once again, I'm met with sunlight so white I can't make out anything in her room other than the halo around her head as she pulls me inside. The door closes on its own behind me and Rachel pushes me against the back of the door, walking directly ahead of me so that I can't move anywhere.

That same coy smile is playing on her lips when she tells me, "Put these on." She says it as if she's in a rush, like she only has a little bit of time to stay with me. I'm about to ask what she wants me to put on, because her hands were empty on the way over here, but when I look down, she has both her hands out, concealing something from my view. Slowly, Rachel releases her fingers one by one.

My heartbeat is now resembling that of the irregular ticking of a broken metronome as I look down to Rachel's hands to find Lucy's Glasses.

"Where did you get that?" is the only thing my dumbstruck brain can formulate. The glasses are as new as they were the first day I got them- no bite marks at the tips or scratch marks on the lenses after years of being pushed on the ground. She pushes them closer to me, moving her own feet a fraction of an inch forward. _How did- how did she—_

She raises an eyebrow and shoves the glasses into my hands. "The 'how' isn't important right now, just put them on." I hesitate, the glasses fumbling in my hands, but Rachel persists and helps me open them. "We don't have much time," she presses further.

The frames feel heavy in my hands as I lift them to my eyes, cautiously peering out of my old eyes with my new, contact corrected eyes. Little by little, the marks fall into place and the scratches are visible, slowly becoming etched in the frames like they have been for the past few years. When I keep them hovering over my eyes, watching and remembering each and every line as if it were a secret inscription from the old me, Rachel places her index finger on the bridge and pushes on it until the frames are resting over my eyes.

The light in the room intensifies and Rachel's figure is obscured by my vision before it comes back in full color. I can finally make out her room, the room that I've come to live in almost as much as my own in the last few weeks. The sight before me, of Rachel coy smile being replaced by something more aggressive, reminds me of how close Rachel and I actually are. With a swift motion, she raises her hand to m cheek, cupping it—

Heat. Her hand is a furnace, in the best way possible, on my cheek. She releases the same noise from before, that light and airy sound from my bedroom, and I realize why I've been able to see the sun but not feel it. Sunlight breaks out of Rachel from every orifice possible and heat radiates from her hand into me, warming me up from my face on down. Her fingers trace over the side of the frames, working their way over the faded pattern only to rest on my cheek. Rachel smiles up at me as she watches the way my body responds to hers.

In that moment, I don't ever think she's looked more beautiful.

"I know you want to." Rachel's words don't leave her mouth, but they come from the place in my mind where I hide my issues away. _Oh, no. She's found it_. My eyes shift, embarrassed that she's made it to the place where I keep my problems hidden from the rest of the world, but taps her hand on my ckeek, forcing my eyes to focus on her.

"Why are you so afraid?" This actually leaves her mouth while the smile stays plastered on her face and her hand traces the contour of my cheek. I open my mouth to answer her, to list the number of obvious reasons of why I'm so afraid, but the taste is too strong. It's over powering all of my senses and my tongue is overflowing with the taste of…the familiar taste of…

Strawberries.

I bring a hand to my lips, _because this is unbelievable_, while Rachel continues to grin at me. Her other hand removes mine from my lips and intertwines them as they fall at our sides.

"I know you want this," she pushes forward, "and I know you _need_ this." She cocks her head to the left, leaning closer, and there's light and strawberries and Rachel. Raising an eyebrow, she tells me, "Don't be so afraid."

There are no more words before I push forward, attempting to meet Rachel half way. As if turns out, I don't meet Rachel's lips at all, but mine do come in contact with something that is most likely Rachel's elbow.

Beside me, Rachel's shifting in her sleep, bringing a hand to rest over her head and making it so that it hits me in the mouth, pushing my teeth uncomfortably close onto my lips. Groaning, I move my head a few inches further back on my pillow, creating a distance between myself and Rachel as she twits once more in her sleep. I bring a hand to my head, cradling my skull where's Rachel's elbow made contact while roughly blowing out through my nostrils at her perfect timing. I was there- _right there_; few more seconds and I could have reached out to her and finally indulged.

In all of my previous dreams about Rachel, I never actually let myself lose control, whether I was aware that is was a dream or not. Most of the time, I entered the dream already in progress, with Rachel's hand on my waist or my tongue on her neck, but I quickly gained my composure, pushing Rachel as far away from me as humanly possible until the hammering in my chest stopped. This time, though, this time was different.

Every rational thought was thrown to the wind and I actually went in for it. Rachel may have initiated it, but I couldn't find it in me to stop her. What makes it even worse is that I went along with it. She knew- she saw every blush across my cheeks and read each line of worry stitched into my forehead due to her words. Rachel was able to decipher each and every obstacle I threw at her and I could do nothing but comply.

A scoff escapes my lips as I twist my legs around the comforter in frustration. 'Comply' my ass. I wanted it. I wanted every minute of it, and the one moment I decide to indulge in my twisted fantasy, has to be the moment when I'm sharing a bed with her.

Glancing over the bed, I see that Rachel seems to have found a comfortable spot on my bed, nestling her head around the pillow I gave her earlier. Her hair is strewn about the pillow, dark brown and black locks mingling in the center near the star only to be brightened by the slither of sunlight my curtains are allowing to enter my bedroom. She facing me, her body curled up into a ball, and I reach down, pulling the covers over her legs when a small shiver runs through her body.

Shifting, I sling an arm around her waist, pulling myself closer to her until our foreheads are nearly touching. I may never allow myself to indulge in real life like I attempted to in my dreams, but this will have to be enough.

* * *

><p>"I have to admit, <em>Mulan<em> was a really great movie."

I can sense her rolling her eyebrows through the phone, but I can also sense the grin following it. Grinning myself, I laugh and say, "I knew you would like it."

Staring at the discarded copy of _The Age of Reason_, I curl my hand around the leg my chin is resting on, and listen to Rachel's light laugh on the other end of the phone. When she was still here, I found myself drifting back off to sleep, only to be awoken by the sound of Rachel's voice coming from inside my shower. After the both of us were clean, we decided to spend another few hours in the Movie Room, where I convinced her to watch _Mulan_. If the tears at the end of the movie didn't convince me that she liked it, I don't know what would have.

"I must say, I respect her much more than I did yesterday. She had a lot of courage to defy the law like that to fight for her country," Rachel exhales slightly, creating static on her end of the phone, "As brave as I am, I don't think I could have ever been brave enough to do something like that."

I arch an eyebrow that she can't see. Rachel goes through so much on an everyday basis at school, it's hard for me to think of her lacking courage. "I didn't think I'd ever see the day when Rachel Berry wasn't brave." My honesty must have hit something inside her by her lack of a response. "You practically exude courage. I don't think I've ever been as brave as you've ever been."

My conversation with Leroy reverberates in my mind as his words strike up something inside of me, making my insecurities flow. I don't know what it's like for Rachel's parents in Lima, I don't think anyone does really, but the idea of Rachel trying to be as brave as them creates a low, uneasy feeling grow in the pit of my stomach. I can only imagine what she must have gone through as a child, what she must have witnessed being done to her family, only to enter High School and deal with what she deals with on a regular basis; the slushies, the name calling, being shoved into lockers. And all by the children of people who undoubtedly torture her family outside the walls of McKinley. I may not know what happens to her parents, but I have seen my fair share of prejudice from this town- subtle and not so subtle.

I have never met a braver person in my life.

"Don't doubt your own bravery, Quinn," she persists, "With everything you've had to go through, you've been more courageous than I've ever been."

"'Courage is grace under pressure'," I quote without much enthusiasm, "and I have _never_ been graceful when trying to be brave."

"Ernest Hemmingway never had your life."

Another arched eyebrow and a surprised smirk. If I had said that to any other person in this town, they would have never realized that I was quoting someone, let alone know the person I was quoting to begin with. Honestly, I should know by now to expect the unexpected when it comes to Rachel.

"I should really be upset that you don't give me enough credit when it comes to knowing certain things, Quinn. I can tell by the silence that you were stunned I knew that was Hemmingway," It's beginning to scare me how well she knows me. "This is also the same girl who knew who Thomas Pynchon was, too."

"Touché," I answer with a laugh, "Although, you didn't know who Mu—" The phone beeps against my ear, telling me that someone else is calling me. Huffing, I say to Rachel, "Can you hold on for a second? Someone is calling me."

Rachel responds with a "Mmm-hmm," while I grudgingly click over. Whoever this is better have a damned good explanation for interrupting our conversation.

Gruffly, I answer with a, "Hello?"

"Can you come over?"

Her voice is fragile and laced with uncertainty. She's trying to regulate her breathing to an even pace, but whimpers are escaping every few seconds, followed by a shrill _"Fuck!"_ when something in the distance crashes. She releases a stream of words in a language that I can't understand before finally settling on, "I need you."

"I'll be over in 10." I say, ignoring the fact that it takes me about 20 to get to her house on a good day.

"Hurry," is the last thing she says before the phone clicks off and I'm left with a dial tone.

Clicking back over to Rachel, I say in the calmest voice I can muster up at the moment, despite the hurricane plowing through my thoughts, "May I call you back later? Something came up and I need to go."

She must sense the urgency in my voice because she doesn't push forward, nor does she ask what came up. Quickly, she replies, "Of course. Talk to you later."

"Later." It's impersonal and informal, and on any other day I would curse myself for clicking off on her in such a manner, but I had to.

I'm out of my bedroom door before I even get a chance to grab a pair of shoes.

* * *

><p>It's a strange scene to find Santana's house empty. Whether it is her parents or her siblings, there was always someone at her house whenever I visited. That was primarily the reason for Santana spending most of her childhood at Brittany's house- whenever hers was a crowd, Brittany's father always had room for one more. In the past, I've even gone to Brittany's house when my own was too much for me, reveling in the simplicity of Brittany's three person family (Britt, her father and her sister) rather than my complicated one filled with extended relatives, socialites and the occasional congressman. Now, looking into her house where there seems to be no one in sight, it makes that rumbling feeling in my stomach drop out completely.<p>

Stepping through the house, I find that all of the lights are off except for one near the end of the hall: her bedroom. She's replaced the regular white fluorescent light with a burning red bulb, making the hallway to her bedroom resemble that of a dark room. Moving closer to the light, I can actually see that is isn't as ominous as it looks. The light may cast a harsh glow on the faded dark green wallpaper in the hallway, but from what I can see of her actually bedroom, it creates an almost ethereal glow of a soft red. The intimate impression I get from the setup is what causes my hand to slip on the knob before I push it all the way in.

Santana's sitting on her bed, a skirt bunched up around her waist, while her head is resting on her knees, obscuring her face from me. Surrounding her are the remnants of her attempted photographs of Brittany. From what I can see of the tattered pieces, she had actually gotten better before ripping them right along the center, destroying what could have been. Her easel is halfway sticking out of her closet, broken in one of its legs while the papers from her sketch pads have been tossed round the room.

It scares me to see her sitting alone in a mess like this. What scares me even more is that it looks like a tamed version of my room a few days ago.

"She's leaving me, Q."

I hadn't realized that I was still standing in the doorway when Santana's timid voice comes from the bed. Her head is lifted and there are streams of mascara running down her cheeks that she isn't trying to wipe away. Her white blouse is stained with some kind of liquid, and growing up with the mother I have, my eyes immediately shift around the room looking for a bottle of any kind. I find it, hidden under a photograph of Brittany that was torn from the vanity, and I walk over to the dresser to retrieve it.

Cautiously, I walk around the scraps, avoiding the portraits as I move along. When the bottle is right beside my bare feet, my neatly done pedicure standing out amongst the mess, I shoot Santana a look that goes unnoticed. Staring down at the bottle, my nostrils flare and I breathe in short breaths, tightening my lips as I prepare myself to pick it up. Santana knows my disdain for drinking- nothing good ever comes from it. The first time I ever drank, I ended up pregnant and the second time I ended up cursing out Puckerman for getting me pregnant. It frustrates the hell out of me to think she would resort to getting drunk to deal with her issues. I know she's trying to be better for herself, and for the first time it's because she wants to, but to look at Santana like this. To watch her sitting on her bed, drunk to oblivion because of something she felt she couldn't handle without a bottle, it's, it's - it's un-opened. I pick up the bottle in amazement by the body with two hands, watching how the liquid is incapable of sloshing around because it is full. The seal to the bottle hasn't even been ripped slightly to indicate that she attempted to open it. I grab the bottle by the neck and inspect the top, noting that the cork is still in place, despite the obvious blotches on Santana's blouse. Looking back towards the bed, I realize that the stain on her shirt is primarily around her neck and small traces of the damp marks can be found near the collar as well.

It's tears. I drop the bottle down heavily on the carpet, slightly angered at myself for my forward assumption. I can't believe the first thing my mind could come up with is that she drunk herself into a stupor, even after she called me over visibly upset at something. Crossing the room over to sit on her bed next to her, I ask, knowing who 'she' already is, "What do you mean?"

Santana sniffles for a moment, wiping away at her nose with the back of her hand when she pulls out from behind her a neatly folded paper. Wordlessly, she hands it to me, her eyes never leaving the page. This paper, out of everything else in the room other than the bottle, is the only thing still intact. Its crisp, folded twice as if it came out of an envelope and under the red light of Santana's lamps, it looks like it's glowing.

Unfolding it, I read aloud, "'Dear Ms. Brittany Pierce'," I pause, looking over at Santana who has buried her head once more in her knees, "'I am pleased to inform you of your early admission to the College and Conservatory of the Performing Arts, Los Angeles Branch. My colleagues and I were pleased by your audition piece and would like to extend to you an invitation to enter into our American Musical and Dramatic Academy program. Those of us at AMDA believe that you would be a fine addition to our growing team of outstanding students and professors and we hope that you would accept our invitation. If you chose to join us, you would become part of…"

The paper leaves my hands as I let it fall to the bedspread while my mouth hangs agape, slowly forming a smile. This is incredible! I won't deny that I've been concerned for Brittany concerning life after High School, she's smarter than people give her credit for, but her grades have never really been up to par. Ever since Brittany, Santana and I quit the Cheerios, I knew her chances of going to college were much slimmer because she wouldn't be eligible for a scholarship. Even if Santana never said it out loud, I knew the only reason she pushed for Brittany to stay on the squad after Coach Sylvester threatened to throw her out of a cannon was because of what the Cheerios National Recognition could do for her. Sustaining an injury with a scholarship from a Nationally Ranked Cheerleading Squad looks much better on paper than a below C average.

"Santana, this is great!" I turn to her, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look up at me. "Brittany got accepted into College – early acceptance at that! She actually has a chance to make it out of this cow town!"

"She's going to California." Santana presses her knees closer to her body, pushing away the paper that fell from my hands with her foot. Her voice is wavering, teetering on the edge of broken as her puffy, swollen eyes release more tears that have been waiting to leave. "That's approximately 2,252 miles from here, away from School, away from her family and…away from me." Santana roughly brings the palm of her hand to wipe her face, smearing more of her makeup off in the process and pushes her hands down harshly on the bed. "We were supposed to make it out of here together. Now…now I don't even know."

My mouth forms something to say, but Santana cuts me off, her usual cutting voice back. "And don't you _dare_ think for one minute that I'm not happy for her. I'm ecstatic that she only has to deal with the dickheads in this town for one more year before she's free of it all. I just- I just thought that this year would be different. Different for the two of us." She removes her hands from around her legs and fists the bedspread, forcing her nails into the floral pattern until part of it comes loose at the seams. "We spent most of our Junior year skirting around what we were, and when we finally start to define 'us', she gets accepted to a college thousands of miles away."

"But I'm happy for her, ya know. So _fucking_ happy that it hurts," a smile forms briefly until a grimace breaks through. "But what about _me_? I've been on the backburner of everyone's thoughts this year that I don't even know how I'm supposed to feel about this," she finally meets my eyes, tears still freely flowing from them. "I'm on a fucking rollercoaster with my emotions, happy for her but pissed because she's going far away from me. I just got her back, Q. I don't want to lose her again."

"I'm trying so goddamned hard and every single attempt I make is being shoved right back in my face," she grits out, fisting the sheets once again, and I drop my head to my chest, listening to her tell her story. Conflicting emotions is something I unfortunately know all too well, and the more she continues to talk about her and Brittany, the more Santana's actions over the past year seem to make more sense. The misguided anger towards members of the Glee club, (myself included with the Mono situation), the constant bickering between her and any person that had the misfortune of crossing her path and even the relationship between her and Karofsky clicks into place. It was her way of dealing with everything that was going on between _them_.

"I invited her over to have dinner with me, and not just any dinner… but a date. A _real_ fucking date," with her eyes shut, she slams her hands down on the sheet once more and it causes Brittany's acceptance letter to fall gracefully to the floor. "Not one where we make out in front of some guy for a free meal but a real date where she comes over to my house, I cook her dinner and we spend the rest of the evening feeding ducks in the park."

She motions to her bedroom and for the first time since I've been in here, I notice that despite the obvious mess, the room is set up for a date. She's put most of her belongings away, tucking them away in the closet as far as I can tell, and she's even changed her bed sheets. There are various, unlit candles scattered around her room and on the floor, there is a bag of breadcrumbs for her to use with Brittany.

"I did all of this for her and she comes over high as a fucking kite because of that acceptance letter," she drops her head once more, but opens her eyes to stare at the orchids on the bed sheet. "She had no clue I was setting this up for her and when she got here, she was so excited. So goddamned excited that she almost forgot about the letter until I asked her what it was," her voice goes through a change, and it sounds as though she's trying her hardest not to let her emotions get to her, "And I was happy for her until it hit me. I realized that I was losing the best friend I've ever had in this world before I even got a chance to get her back."

Pulling my legs up to my chest as well, I move myself closer to Santana, barely brushing against her thigh with my own. I can't imagine what she's going through right now; my relationship with Rachel doesn't run nearly as deep as theirs and this is the first time I've ever seen Santana look sullen. Her eyes are red, and not from the light, but red from how hard she's been crying. There are worry lines engraved in her forehead and her brow is low and heavy, sinking down because of the weight she's been carrying around. It's enough to make lines form across my forehead, thinking back to a time when laugh lines once started to form around her mouth. This past year she's done so much scowling that they have been replaced by a constant tight lipped grimace. Looking at her now, it doesn't even seem like Santana, but some broken being that's taken over.

"When did she apply?" I ask quietly out of curiosity, breaking the silence, other than the sound of the sobs Santana's not trying to let escape.

"While she was dating Artie," she doesn't say his name with as much disgust as she used to, but the lack of emotion she fills it with scares me more. "When she was on TV with the _Brainiacs_, she said there were scouts from all different schools. One of them was there from the school that accepted her and he suggested that she send in an audition tape." Santana pauses, catching her breath once more before she continues, "Britt said being on the team made her feel like she could actually go to college, so she sent off an audition piece." She turns to me, a small smile forming, "they liked her so much they sent someone out to give her an interview. Tina helped her out with the interview questions and drove her to meet the scout." She laughs humorlessly, nodding towards the acceptance letter in front of me. "Apparently somebody liked her."

Santana looks me in the eyes once more, looking at me through eyes that have lost their animation, and I instinctively wrap my arm around her shoulder. Santana responds instantly by turning her body and burying her head in my chest. No longer holding back her tears, she shakes into my torso, whispering things that are too muffled for me to understand- even if they were in English. Her nails are digging into my back, putting so much pressure into me that it stings, but I ignore the pain and stroke Santana's hair, pulling it away from her when the fabric of my shirt starts to soak through.

She feels so delicate in my arms that I'm afraid if I pull away, she'll be lost forever.

"Don't be like me, Q," she tells me with a quavering voice. My hand fumbles in her hair, stilling its movements as she continues to sob and talk at the same time. "If you like Rachel, let her know. If you are into her - _all_ of her - then you let her know," the words stumble out of her lips at an uncontrollable pace, "just go for it because you'll never know what could happen. Make it known that you like her and that you want her…" she pushes her head further into my chest, and after releasing a shaky breath, she adds flatly, "just don't be like me."

The tears are gone for now, but still she keeps her body pressed closely to mine, using me for support as she holds on tightly. So I sit here, with Santana wrapped in my arms under the glow of her red light, feeling her words resonate through me as something cracks deep inside my chest.

* * *

><p>It doesn't take long. It took a total of fifteen minutes to get everything in place and in order. In all honesty, it frightens me how quickly all the pieces fell together. The only snag was in the original one I wanted, but that only lasted for about five seconds when another piece fit just as easily. Just as nicely. Maybe even better.<p>

There's a break between Point A and Point B, but finding ground to cover there was just as easy as finding the destinations to begin with. Point B and C are so close to each other that I was beginning to think that this whole set-up was meant to be.

But it isn't, of course. It can never be.

Even if it isn't, my fingers are dialing her number before the wall Santana cracked has a chance to patch itself up. There's only a small window of time that I can actually do this.

"Hey," she answers enthusiastically, "Is everything alright?"

My hand feel clammy against the back of my phone, and my hands _never_ get clammy, as I feel the sealant already forcing its way through the cracks, correcting what should have never happened in the first place. I push my free hand through my hair, gathering as much courage as I can before the damn is completely finished.

"No, but it will be," I answer to the best of my ability. I stayed with Santana until voices began to fill the Lopez house. She told me she convinced her family to leave the house for the evening so she could spend it with Brittany, but when that went down the drain, she didn't have the energy to call them back. I stayed with her until her father's voice came from down the hallway, calling out to her for help with their belongings. I got up, attempting to clean some of her mess away while she stayed in the bed, facing the wall with the blanket pulled up to her chin. Her father walked in and almost lost it all when he saw the room, but one look at Santana's state and he hit a breaking point. I turned to Santana, looking for some sort of signal as to what I should do for her next, but when I watched her fall into her father's arms as he whispered words of encouragement into her ear, I knew she was going to be alright.

Reeling from my own thought, I suck in a deep breath and bit my bottom lip before asking, "What are you doing on Friday?"

She laughs, probably pushing strands of hair away from her face when she responds, "Well, I've spent almost every Friday this summer doing something with you, so my guess would be that I would be beside a very good friend of mine."

Her words temporarily halt the repairs. A smile flashes its way across my face for the most fleeting of moments before I say, "I want to take you somewhere."

I can hear Rachel breathing softly, mulling over my words no doubt before she asks, "Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," I reply without hesitation. It's getting tougher to keep the hammering at bay, so I need to get this out as fast as possible.

"I'm not very good with surprises," she confesses with a heaviness in her voice. "It's a control issue, I have."

I know the feeling.

"Trust me." When it comes out of my mouth, it almost sounds like I'm pleading.

"I do."

A hammer fumbles, the repairs are happening slower than I imagined, and my heart flutters. Slowing my voice down, I tell her, "You should wear jeans. Or if you do wear a skirt, make sure it isn't a long one." She doesn't respond right away, and actually, I can't hear anything coming from her end. Nervous, I add, "Or you can bring a change of clothes. I just don't want anything to get ruined."

Rachel still isn't saying anything. I shouldn't have asked her in the first place. I'm making everything awkward all over again- I knew it. Dammit, Fabray, why can't you just leave well enough alone? That's is, just tell her—

"I'll wear jeans."

The only word of comprehension I can come up with is, "Awesome."

The sound cuts out again, and I wonder if she's hung up on me, but her muffled voice is coming through the other end, obviously not directed at me. Oh. She's put her hand on the receiver.

"Belle, I'll have to call you back. My parents need me for something."

_Belle_. The fact that she's decided to actually call me Belle brings an uninhibited blush to my face and a smile to follow. It's a better nickname than Fabacon, that's for sure. With a toothy smile, I reply, "Of course."

"See you Friday," she adds before cutting me off.

"Yeah," I say somewhat breathlessly, "See you Friday."

…

It takes a total of thirty seconds after she hangs up the phone for me to realize that, without full disclosure to her on my part, I inadvertently invited Rachel Berry out on a date.

* * *

><p>- The work of literature that Quinn reads, <em>The Age of Reason,<em> was written by Thomas Paine.

-The title of this chapter is inspired by "Diablo Rojo" by Rodrigo y Gabriela. (In all honesty, the fact that the title of this is "Rojo" and the majority of this chapter deals with Santana is pure coincidence)


	13. Suicide By Star

It takes another thirty seconds for my stomach to cave in on itself and disintegrate into dust, completely shattering any bit of confidence I had for the last twenty minutes.

Looking down at my laptop, where the screen is lit up with about six different windows and a few confirmation numbers here and there, I wonder if all of this is actually for the best. That crack that Santana somehow managed to get through has not only patched itself, but has also created a tension in my spine as I think about all the reasons this could go wrong. I can't have every afternoon spent lying on her bed just _being_ or every evening stroll to her favorite coffee shop for a late night talk come crashing down in a single day because of my doing. I was miserable without her for a week and despite how independent I am, having our friendship come to an end because of _this_ is too hard to think about. If this goes wrong, I could end up losing it all.

I sink backwards into the bed without even bothering to remove the computer off of my lap and puff my cheeks up as far as they can go until a large expulsion of air releases from my lips. Another sigh leaves my nostrils as I look up at my ceiling, a complete contrast to Rachel's; where hers is stenciled with the constellations, an outward expression of her future, mine is empty, a pale and muted cream color. Where I can make out the Emu and Andromeda on hers, painting in the colors with the sound of her laughter, I stare distantly at mine, trying to fill in the void. Closing my eyes, I try to control my breathing that had somehow picked up in the last few minutes, biting down on the inside of my cheek as I do so. If I close them tight enough, I can almost see them; the stars drawn lightly above our heads as if they're the only thing left in the world. I can hear Rachel whispering in my ear what each of the faded outlines mean and feel the pure elation pouring out of her at each admission. Yes. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can almost see them.

It starts. Subdued and muddled, it starts at the base of my skull, creeping along the constellations and destroying everything in its path. The voices, the fears and the shame morph together into a cloud of uncertainty and push through that final barrier that somehow kept me together. It hits me hard, and the headache strikes like an atomic bomb, wiping out each and every memory of Rachel from these past few weeks until nothing is left but a charred outline of what was. A growl forms in the back of my throat and I bring my hands up in a fit to scrape through my hair. The ash from the memories collects and gets swept up in the cloud threatening to destroy the last bit of happiness I have from this summer; everything is so convoluted and clustered in my mind as the thoughts begin to take a new shape after the fire. Perhaps I've misinterpreted every interaction between the two of us. The lilt in her voice whenever we got close could have been from something other than nerves and surely the flush on her cheeks from the mornings outside her house could have been from the cold.

Perhaps I've imagined it all.

A noise that is distinctly that of my computer goes off – a whirr and the faint sound of the fan clicking on – and heat spreads from the area between the top of my hips and the middle of my thigh. It manages to bring me out of my musings, and although the headache is still raging beneath what's left of my memories, I move the laptop to the side and push myself off until I'm in a sitting position once again. Bringing a hand to run through my tousled hair, I reach another hand across my bed for my phone. I can end this now. I can claim insanity- temporary insanity. I can tell her I have other plans, but she would know that's a lie. My plans all seems to revolve around her in some way or another. Knowing Rachel, she would probably know that I'm lying before I even try and get a word out. My fingers are running over the edge of my phone, circling the rounded edges, attempting to make their way to Rachel's number before my mind can contemplate any further.

Before I can even make my way to the screen, it light's up, casting a harsh glow on my face. I tap the screen and it automatically takes me to my text message inbox:

'**I cannot wait until Friday! ;)' **

So much for that.

* * *

><p>"You look nice today, Quinnie." Mother's words come out of her mouth slowly, muffled slightly by the coffee cup pressed against her lips. On my route to the kitchen, I'm stopped in the dayroom by my mother's alertness. Ignoring the dark rings under her eyes from longer shifts, she almost looks like her old self.<p>

Well, the old self without the red eyes and slanted gait anyway.

Her eyes trail over my form, moving everywhere from the upside-down cross on my shirt to the dark boots that encase my feet. She raises an eyebrow in curiosity, a silent questioning of my look, but doesn't express any hint of contempt. "Different," she continues, "but nice." I know she's sincere by a faint smile forms at the corner of her mouth before she returns her eyes to the cup in her hands. I thought for sure if I saw her this morning she would have something to say over my outfit, especially after years of cardigans and yellow sundresses, but she doesn't even turn up her nose like I thought she would. Instead, she picks up the book hanging idly from her hand.

"Thank you," I whisper, loosening the clutch on my purse I've had ever since I stepped into the room. Mother's eyes flit up to me quickly, a smile forming behind them, before bringing them back down to her novel. I smooth out the dark garment that's practically hanging off my shoulders and say what I've been saying for the majority of the summer. "I'm going out with Rachel."

It gets her attention enough that her eyes move to the center of the carpet, stopping somewhere between my feet, while she closes her book. Mother crosses her legs, placing the book down in her lap with a smile.

"Are you now?" she asks playfully as she runs a hand through her hair. "I feel like we've had this conversation before."

I ignore the way she raises her eyebrow once more at the small amount of air that expels from my mouth at her words. I ignore it almost as much as I ignore the way my internal organs have started running haywire.

"I'm going to be coming back a little late. Hopefully before midnight," my eyes, which have been fixed on the carpet, look up to read her expression. It's curiosity, but not the same kind as before. This time it's different; she's waiting to see how far I'm going to push this, "but if something does happen, I'll make sure to call you." I know not to push her _too_ far.

Mother sucks on her teeth slowly, letting her eyes roam over my outfit once more before settling on my face. She tilts her head up, opening her mouth as she does to take in a breath, and tells me, "Say 'Hello' to Rachel for me."

The corners of my mouth twitch up slightly, unconsciously even. I try and mask my smile by turning my head to the window briefly before putting it back on her. Still, by the way her eyebrow rises one final time, I can tell she saw what I tried to keep hidden from her. I tap my fingers on the strap of my purse before tilting my head towards the door. "I will," Mother nods, never taking her eyes off her novel, "and I'll be sure to call you if something comes up."

"Have fun," is the last thing I hear before I'm out the door, my boots skidding on the carpet as I make my way to my car.

* * *

><p>Ever since my incident at Rachel's house, I haven't had the opportunity to drive my car since it stalled on me. Here and now, feeling the engine rev beneath me as I make my way to pick her up, I don't know how I made it so long without going for a drive. It's soothing, just moving along the occasionally bumpy road, and it's giving me enough time to think about how exactly I'm going to handle this 'Situation'.<p>

Despite everything that happened, I feel as though I can still keep this platonic. Our sleepover may have blurred the boundaries between platonic and... things not so platonic, but perhaps this could be a step back in that direction. She was only humoring me in my playful effort to take my laptop away from her and knowing Rachel, the events that followed were probably her attempt at preserving any little amount of dignity I had. She just went along with me because that's what she does.

Even if she did—I could never even try to—dammit. Out of frustration, my hands grip the wheel uncomfortably until I can feel the ridges on my palms from the cover. If I weren't driving, I'd let my had fall down to the wheel, hoping that somehow it could knock these thoughts from my mind. Blowing roughly out my nostrils, I focus on the cars in front of me. Now that I've made it closer to Rachel's house, the traffic has thinned out to only a select group of cars, mostly station wagons of soccer moms and dads that reside in her neighborhood.

The amount of energy that bursts free in the center of my chest when I round the corner is surely enough to light up the entire city. Rachel's sitting on her front step and even from her seated position, I can see the pair of dark jeans that she traded in from her short skirts. To complete her ensemble, she's chosen to wear a fitted, light grey shirt where the sleeves end at her elbows. The end of her shirt is long enough to go a few inches past the top of her jeans, ending in a small knot on her left side where she tightened it herself. Rachel turns her head in the direction of my car and stands abruptly- the smile on her face threatening to rival mine. She's bouncing over before I even fully have a chance to put my car in park.

"I wasn't expecting this," she says and I un-buckle myself from the seat, grabbing my purse from the back. Rachel stops a few yards ahead of my car, watching in surprise as I exit. I didn't exactly tell her that I was picking her up or that my car had gotten fixed. I just told her to be ready by a certain hour. She crosses her arms, a smile on the edges of her expression, and walks a few feet ahead to catch up to me. "I see someone got their car fix—"

Rachel has stopped midsentence, her mouth hanging agape as her arms fall to her sides. Almost on instant, I stop as well, wondering silently what I've done in the last thirty seconds to make her go from loquacious to completely aphonic. I sling my purse around my shoulder, buying time as I walk closer to Rachel who's still staring at me with her mouth wide open.

"Is something wrong?" I ask cautiously. I run a conscious hand through my hair, trying to fix any imperfections she may be focused on right now. My hand fumbles on the quasi-Ozzy Osbourne styled sunglasses I have resting on the top of my head, but I fix it back neatly once again. "Did I do something wrong?" I ask again.

Rachel takes an audible intake of breath before beginning in a low voice,

"'Hell _Is_ So Hot Right Now'. You look _amazing_, Quinn!"

Oh. _Oh_. It takes me a moment to understand what exactly Rachel means, because my brain is having a hard time putting together the pieces of 'Hot', and 'You' and 'Quinn', but one look at her gaze lingering on my outfit, I get the meaning. My outfit: a dark sleeveless shirt with the words 'Hell Is So Hot Right Now' adorning the middle, short black shorts on top of a pair of fishnet stocking complete with a pair of combat boots. Rachel seems mostly fascinated with the space between where my shorts end and my boots begin. She walks over, almost as if she's in a trance, and thumbs the fishnets surrounding my legs.

"I feel a tad bit underdressed looking at you now, I must admit." Rachel tugs harder, pulling the stockings from my legs to loop her finger through one of the small diamonds. She looks up at me innocently, her mouth falling agape once more at my sight. "I didn't even know you owned clothes like this."

I ignore her total lack of personal space as she lets the fishnets fall from her hands and hit my skin with a slight stinging sensation. "Well, you're right actually," I take a step back, motioning to my outfit with a grandiose wave. "These are actually Santana's. She let me borrow them."

In the days following my afternoon at her house, I spent a lot more of my time there with Santana as my way of letting her know I was there for her. She seemed to be handling Brittany's college acceptance better than she had the first night, but I suppose whatever she spoke with her parents about after I left had a positive impact. She didn't even question me when I showed up at her house day after day with an armful of horror films and sour fruit rollups unannounced. We fell into a routine where she would constantly ask me about my 'date' with Rachel and I, out of respect, wouldn't bring up Brittany. When I told her what I had planned, she practically tossed this outfit at me and threatened me if I didn't wear it.

"If you dye the rest of your hair pink I'm going to be scared," she quips with a teasing nudge to my arm, "but the clothes really work for you," Rachel concludes, giving me one final look-over before finding my eyes. "I am a bit worried about what you have planned for me, though." There's a certain bashfulness in her voice that creates a blooming surge of heat in my cheeks.

To hide the sudden burst of color, I turn sideways, motioning for the passenger side door. "There's no need to worry," I say as I open it for Rachel, tilting my head to the side for her to take a seat. "You're only with me."

Rachel gets in the car, an amused smile on her lips, as she hums softly while buckling herself in. By the time I'm in the front seat and pulling down the strap for the seat-belt, Rachel's tapping me on the forearm. Turning slowly, I watch as she places her bottom lip between her teeth mischievously.

"Then in that case," Rachel reaches over, plucking the glasses off of my head to place them over her eyes. She turns to me with a smile reaching the ends of the large frames resting on the bridge her nose and places both of her hands on the dashboard. "Let the fun times begin."

* * *

><p>"You can't be serious right now. Of all the things to be afraid of... horses?"<p>

Rachel rolls her eyes, sidestepping my glance out the corner of my eyes to look out the window. She lets her eyes wander a bit on the scenery before placing them back on me. I look over at her briefly when she clears her throat and answers,

"It's perfectly plausible. As you may have already picked up on, I am quite short in stature. Horses terrify me mostly because they are twice my size and there is no doubt in my mind that a Clydesdale could crush me in one step."

It takes all of my willpower to keep my eyes focused on the road and not swerve off due to my uncontrollable laughter.

A few short seconds later, a strong punch lands square on my shoulder, causing me to flinch in response. "Humans shouldn't be riding horses anyway. We have feet for a reason," she rationalizes, smoothing out the spot on my shoulder she hit with her palm. "Sorry about the punch." Rachel adds pressure to the hand on my shoulder, moving her hand in a circular motion while pressing her fingers into my shoulder blades.

Smiling at the feeling, I shrug my shoulders, rolling them in her hand so that she presses her fingers down harder. Understanding my gesture, Rachel continues to press her fingers into my blades, turning her head to look out the window once more, all the while humming to herself. Amused, I shift my attention back to the road, enjoying the sensation of the pressure from the pads of Rachel's fingers smoothing out the tension in my arm. Looking up at the sky for a brief moment, I can judge by the sun's position that it's around noon. It means we're almost there.

As if on cue, I can see it slowly roll up in the distance. As the dark-auburn awning comes into vision, standing out amidst the abundance of green in every direction, my heart migrates from my chest to my throat. If it weren't for Rachel's hands calming me from the neck down, I'm pretty sure I would have leapt out of the window due to anticipation. It's the only building we've seen for the past twenty miles or so, and Rachel immediately notices, halting the movements on my arm while sitting up straighter in her seat. Out of my peripherals, I can see Rachel's head turn towards me then back quickly to the building we're approaching. In the few seconds it takes me to turn off the main road and onto the winding one in front of the building, my arms almost completely give out. I pull into the little patch of dirt near the entrance, staring up at the awning that looks much more ominous in person than it did online. The beige colored, barn-like structure doesn't seem nearly as friendly and inviting as it ought to.

Maybe I should just give it all up right now. If I'm this nervous and we haven't even gone inside, there is no way I can keep this up for the entire length of the day. My arms have practically atrophied on me, and as I look down at their withered state in my lap, I _know_ that I can't keep this up. What was I thinking? Driving her all the way out here and for what? To completely lose my cool before anything even began? I need to turn this boat around and get us far, far away from here.

"I guess it's safe to assume that we've?" Rachel's hand has found its way to my right one and she threads our fingers together as if it's the most common thing in the world- as if she can't feel the perspiration breaking out in the palm of my hand. I pull my eyes up from out intertwined hands to settle on her face. She's smiling. It's the kind of reassuring smile she always seems to have reserved for me whenever my thoughts get the better of me. She wrinkles her lips for a moment, and flits her eyes to the dashboard quickly before bringing them back to me. She lifts the left side of her mouth into a smirk before bringing our hands to them and placing a kiss on the back of mine. Rachel lets her lips linger for longer than necessary, closing her eyes in what seems like deep concentration before leading our hands back to her lap where she runs her right hand over the space where her lips just were.

It amazes me how one single gesture from Rachel can make my heart beat fast and slow at the same time.

I would have almost forgotten the reason for our entire excursion if a man hadn't walked out of the building in front of us. Rachel and I both look out at the sound of the door closing shut and notice a young man waving for us to come inside. She squeezes my hand just a bit before releasing it to pull off her seatbelt. I follow her, taking off my seatbelt as well and getting out of the car, hoping that somehow the walk to the building would calm my nerves down. It doesn't.

"How you ladies doin' today? I must say, it's a nice day to go pickin'. Hi," he reaches his hand out, waiting for either Rachel or myself to take it. "I'm Jim."

Rachel takes the initiative and shakes his hand enthusiastically to which he simply smiles. He reaches his hand over to me, giving me a once over because of my wardrobe, but shrugs and smiles as I grasp his hand firmly. He pulls back a bit, holding both of his hands up and asks, "Now, which one of you is Quinn?"

"That would be me." I instantly realize that Jim has a slight southern twang to his voice which I didn't pick up over the phone. We spoke every other day when I first arranged this, and seeing him in person is making everything real; it's making this entire thing a reality.

"Nice to finally meet you," he nods. I say the same back as he once again waves us towards the house. Rachel grabs my arm with excitement as we make our way inside. "Now, I've doubled and triple checked the carts outside in case there was any sort of mechanical malfunction with the vehicles and I've also made sure that there are several basket spread out through the entire field if you guys decide to move around," Jim's walking through the house quickly, cutting corners and turning down hallways so fast that I can barely make out the inside of the house. Where I have to almost run to keep up with Jim, beside me Rachel is having no trouble following behind him. She has a slight bounce in her step, making her look as though she's skipping forward, and the pure anticipation written across her features is enough to make the beating of my heart settle for a moment. "There really isn't anything to worry about, other than the few rabbits we have on the property," he leans back towards us and holds his hands up like he were telling us something in confidence, "they're allowed to take anything they want. But other than that, you're all set."

It's only when Jim stops that I realize we've reached a large set of doors that presumably lead to the back of the house. Jim turns around to face Rachel and I, rubbing his hands together and a smile so broad his dimples show. "Ladies," he reaches behind himself and opens both doors without looking. "Enjoy."

Rachel and I step onto the back patio and neither of us can contain the gasp that releases from both of our lips. It's even more beautiful than the photos look online. In front of us is a large field of neatly packed rows and columns of leafy greens and the smallest hints of bright red. Rachel takes another sharp intake of breath, this time keeping her hand on my arm when she grabs it. I steal a look over towards her, and watch as she takes my sunglasses off the top of her head and place one end of the frame in her mouth. She bites the end of it for a second before letting her hand fall to her side. With her eyes still on the field in front of us, she whispers so quietly,

"Strawberry Fields Forever."

Despite the fact the fact that the song she referenced is probably one of the saddest songs in the history of music, the smile that makes its way across my face at her words would be embarrassing if I cared. In front of us, as far as we can see, are rows and rows of strawberries. After the dream I had the night Rachel stayed over at my house, the taste of strawberries never left my senses and invaded my taste buds every night thereafter. Aside from the cheesy cliché of her name, I wasn't actually sure if Rachel would be up for strawberry picking, but judging by the grip on my arm, I have a feeling she is.

Clearing my throat to get her attention, I nudge Rachel with my hip as she turns to me with a child-like sparkle in her eyes. "Do you like it?" I ask, even though I have a feeling I know what her answer is going to be.

Rachel looks up at me, all the while still clutching my arm with a burning intensity, and releases a breath. "Quinn, this is amazing," she looks out across the field and continues, "It's more than amazing."

The knotted feeling of my heart in my throat subsides at her words, and the tension in my body goes away and I let my shoulders fall. Breathing out relief while walking down the patio towards the first row, I tell her, "I've rented out the field for the day, so you can pick as many strawberries as you want. We don't have a set time that we have to be out of here, but I do have something else plan—"

"You did what?" she stops me, tugging onto my arm so that I don't completely walk off the patio. "You rented the _entire_ field?"

I nod, shrugging to mask my nervousness. "Yes," I answer clearly.

"Quinn, you didn't have to do this," she reasons, walking directly in front of me. "I would have been just as fine sharing the field with others or even just being here for an hour or so. This… I can't believe you rented out the _entire_ field," her voice fades out in the end due to disbelief, and she turns around to survey the field once more. After a few moments of complete silence, other than the occasional rustling of leaves caused by the wind, Rachel faces me with a solemn look on her face. She twists her fingers on the end of her shirt, looking down at the ground as she bites on her lip. Her eyebrows knit together before she opens her mouth, and with the same low voice says, "Quinn, this is beautiful. But you didn't have to do all of this. I—this is—it didn't need to be done—"

Before she has a chance to finish, I grab her shoulders and force her to look at me. Her eyes have a shine in them and she's still nibbling on her bottom lip when I let my arm slide down hers to rest at the crook of her elbow. I watch with a heavy brow as her insecurities take over her demeanor; the effervescent girl that was skipping through the house a few minutes ago has been replaced by the girl in front of me. I can't believe she doesn't see what I see when I look at her.

"I did this for you because I wanted to." Rachel looks up at my words, still with the same disbelieving expression on her face. "I did this because you are my friend and it's what friends do." Rachel's mouth has begun to twitch, attempting to turn upward into a full smile despite the fact that her eyebrows are still pulled together. Trying to formulate the right words, I let out, "I did this… I did this to show you how much I care."

For a long time, Rachel stands in front of me, maintaining our distance. I keep my eyes on hers, too nervous to look anywhere else, and slowly remove my hands from her shoulders. Before my hands can move down completely, Rachel grabs my elbows and pulls me against her body for an embrace. I instinctively wrap my arms around her shoulders, lightly pressing my cheek against hers, while her arms do something curious. It'd be amazing if she couldn't feel the way my heart is beating through my ribcage as she moves her arms lower until they are resting on the top of my jeans. All of our hugs thus far have ended with her hands around my ribs, but this is an entirely new concept. If she has any qualms about being this close, she sure isn't showing it by how she begins to pull me closer by the waist, effectively rendering me incapable of doing anything other than rubbing my hands along her back.

She pulls back first, wiping her eyes on her hands before placing them in her back pockets. She bites on her lip, teasingly kicking her foot against mine while she leans her head out towards the field. She turns around with a smirk, her entire expression different from how it was a few minutes ago. Rachel walks a little further towards the end of the patio, but before she fully takes off, she turns around and reaches her hand out to me.

"Come on," the voice emitting from her throat is low and playful as she cocks her head towards the field. "Let's go."

Grinning, I lean forward and brush my fingertips against hers before fully grasping her forearm. She takes off running the moment our hands fit together, heading for the first row she can get to while picking up a basket on the way down. She passes it back to me midway through the row and with another smirk backwards, she's off.

We're running through the field, Rachel carefully tossing back strawberries with spontaneity so that I have to catch them in the basket while they're in the air. We're running. Through the field and through all my inhibitions, Rachel giggles, running to the first cart she finds near an opening. She waits for me until I step inside with the basket in tote and takes off, whizzing through the rows in a blur of red and green. I hold up a strawberry beside her and watch the glee pour out of her with every flash of teeth. She sneaks a glimpse over at me, quickly returning her eyes to the road seconds later, and brings my hand to her lips, taking the strawberry from my hand and pulling it to her mouth.

It does something to that wall built inside me, watching the entire strawberry disappear between her lips, save for the green top, and that crack Santana set free seems to have tripled in size. Before my mind can fully comprehend what's going on, I'm being pulled out of the cart and onto the field once more. We're in a cul-de-sac of strawberries, and I turn around, surrounded by a semi-circle of green bushes until I meet the path we just came from. Rachel's leading me through a row, letting her hands glide over the leaves as she leans down to capture a few berries on her way. I don't know if it's the heat, or Rachel, or maybe even a combination of both, but it feels like I'm gliding through the field. The feeling starts low in my stomach, creating a cooling sensation throughout my entire midsection until it manifests itself in my entire being. Rachel is the cause of it all; her hand is setting me off from every fiber of my being, making everything hazy in its wake as we make our way.

Rachel's on the ground and before I realize it, I'm being pulled down with her. We're sitting with our legs crossed, her hand over mine on the ground as she grabs a few berries to toss in our basket with the others. She continues to pick beside me, her smile never faltering as she does so; I on the other hand, am content watching her as the day pass us by. Occasionally Rachel will graze the back of her knuckles against mine, letting me know she's looking for my attention when my mind wanders, and I'll turn to see her with a berry in hand. Out here alone, surrounded by rows and rows of strawberries, I can relax. I can _finally_ relax. I thought I was relaxed all those other times when it was just the two of us, but being in this strawberry field, I know what relaxing with Rachel really feels like. All the walls, all the defenses that I've come up with over the years to keep myself closed off and all the defenses I kept up this summer to keep myself at a safe enough distance- gone. It feels like…like…

It feels like forever.

And so we sit, passing along strawberries and whispering in each other's ears as if we were children, telling small secrets that get carried off in the cool breeze wafting around us. And we move, walking past rounded corners and hopping over wooden benches set up for lovers and families and friends. We pirouette under archways and chase after rabbits whenever we see a streak of a dark grey tail run through a bush.

It's the sound of Rachel's stomach that brings me from forever and back to the real world. We're sitting in a chair, strung up under an overhead made for two when Rachel places a hand on her stomach, as if she could silence it by will. Although we've been feasting on strawberries the entire time, neither of us have eaten a proper meal.

"Are you hungry?" I ask when she gets up, walking to the small fountain set up in the field.

Rachel nods, waving her hand for me to join her. "Just a little bit," she admits.

When I reach her, I dig into my pocket for the first coin I can find and toss it in. She closes her eyes, wishing on my coin and brings her hands across her chest to rest on her elbows when she's done.

I nudge her with my elbow to get her attention. She looks up, eyes glazed over and a smile toying at her lips. "I know we have the entire day to ourselves here at the field, but there is somewhere else I have for us to go," Raising an eyebrow, I measure her reaction. "And there's food."

The smile on her face is replaced by one of surprise, and I watch as her jaw slowly relaxes until her lips are no longer touching. She lets out a soft _pop_, but recovers almost instantly by shaking her head and waving her hands. "Quinn, this is more than enough, I cannot allow you to do another thing for me. I don't need— you don't need to—"

Surprisingly, Rachel stops herself, throwing her hands down in defeat before I even get a word out. Chuckling at how flusters she's become and the scarlet that's begun making its way up her neck and to her face, I lean my hand her on the shoulder. Her head, which has been bent since she lowered her hands, slowly rises until she looks me in the eyes.

"Thank you." Rachel's voice is so small that if I weren't standing less than a foot in front of her, I doubt I would have heard her. My eyes fall to the exhausted smile on her lips before shrugging lightly. Rachel grabs onto my elbow and we walk in unison to the bench. When I reach for both of the number of baskets we've accumulated throughout our stay, she pushes my hands aside and proceeds to fill up the back of the cart we've been driving. I watch her with a smirk, determined to move all of them on her own before I help her out with the rest.

We ride back to the back exit in silence, watching the blur of colors move beside us all over again. Jim is on the back porch, his feet propped up on a railing and a book in his lap. When he hears the cart pull up he lifts his head, obviously deep in thought by the way his lips are pursed, but greets us with a smile and a wave.

"Done already?" he asks light-heartedly.

"Yeah," I nod, "and we had a great time."

Putting his book down on the railing, he leans onto his elbows to look down at us. "You do know that you have the rest of the day, right?"

I can feel Rachel looking over at me, but I nod at Jim once more. "We've got something else planned."

He smiles and walks down the steps to meet us at the cart where I toss the keys in his direction. He points to the number of baskets in the back. "I'll pack those up for you and have them in your car in five."

He leaves us to walk through the house, carrying two baskets at a time. Beside me, Rachel's hand dances along my arm before settling into my hand, interweaving our fingers together. She leans into me, squeezing my left arm with her body and bringing her right leg up to hit me from behind. Rachel ducks her head, avoiding my gaze when I look down at her, and I return the favor, enjoying the squeal that releases from her lips at my assault.

The two of us continue this little game until we get to the car and head off to our next destination.

* * *

><p>Before we even step into the off-beat tea house, Rachel's bouncing on her feet and running to the door, my wrist held firmly between her fingers as she pulls me along. Rachel pushes through the double stainless steel doors and immediately my nose is hit with exotic scents from teas that my nostrils have never smelled before. Instead of attacking olfactory senses, they all blended together, inviting me in with the faintest hint of chocolate pastries.<p>

E. Claire's has the charm of an old coffee house, with exposed brick behind the counter and an old black-board where all the specials of the day were written, but also the added bonus of large leather-bound chairs at each table and a tin pot of hot water in the center. The large doors that we entered are surrounded by wall to ceiling windows while the other three walls follow the exposed brick pattern to contrast the light with the dark. I found this place on a whim, when looking for something to do between point A and B, and judging from Rachel's expression, I knew it was the right place for her.

"This is perfect, Quinn." Without enough time to react, I'm being pushed backwards into a nearby chair while Rachel wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me into a tight hug. The smile that takes over my face is child-like at her excitement. The confidence from being alone in the strawberry fields with Rachel falters and the fear of this being taken for something more than it is threatens to break free. Glancing around the shop, I realize the other patrons barely look over at us before returning to their conversations or to their books. The only exception being the older man behind the counter, smiling at us and waiting until we make the move to order something.

The anonymity is something I'm not used to, but I can't help but feel a warmth blossom through me. Like in the fields, I can be just as expressive with Rachel as I want. In Lima, it didn't matter to me whether anyone saw Rachel and I together, but what mattered was how well I was able to mask this… this _thing_ from her and from everyone else. More importantly from myself. Here, however, where I am free to be as open as I can be with Rachel, it extends the freedom I felt in the fields.

Giving Rachel one final squeeze before she pulls away, I whisper in her ear, "Everything here is vegan friendly."

She pulls her arms slowly away from my neck, locking eyes with me the moment she does so and wrinkling her nose in delight. Rachel drops her head to my shoulder briefly, then turns around to give the shop one more glance over before she laces our fingers and walks up to the counter.

We give the gentleman at the counter our orders, Rachel impressed at the number of options the shop has on their menu, and I find us a small table tucked away in a corner near a small stage. Upon walking to the table, with our cups of tea in hand, Rachel chides me for paying for both meals.

"I am more than capable of paying for my own food, you know," she slips into the large chair across the table from me, sinking down with an "_ooh_" that leaves her incapable of words as she closes her eyes. Allowing her to relish in the feeling, I laugh and place our drinks on top of two coasters on either side. My laughter brings her out of her mind and she opens her eyes with a certain bashfulness about them. "This is too much, Quinn."

It seems as though she's retreated into her mind, by the way Rachel has somehow managed to make herself small. She doesn't get it. She doesn't understand.

I twirl the string of the tea bag around my index finger, watching the water turn a light brown color as the flavor seeps through the bag. Rachel idly traces the red and brown stitching of the tablecloth, waiting for my response. Clearing my throat, I prepare myself to reiterate everything I said earlier, hoping I can explain to her how much she means to me without giving myself away.

"Have you ever considered the fact that maybe I just want to do something for you?" Rachel watches me intensely, never taking her eyes off of my lips the entire time. "I told you earlier, I'm doing this to show you how much I care."

She takes a long sip from the mug in her hands and I watch as the steam from her tea swirls around her face in an irregular, yet beautiful pattern. Rachel licks her lips as she sets her drink down on the table and wipes at her mouth when she is finished. "You don't need to show me how much you care by buying me food or taking me on long walks through Strawberry Fields Forever. I'll admit, I am quite material at times, but I don't need any of it for me to see how much you care about me. I can see how much you care by your actions." She says each word slowly, rounding each letter and pronouncing each syllable as clearly as she can and keeps her eyes on the table as she does so. After a moment, she looks up at me and says just as slowly and clearly as before, "I can feel how much you care."

It takes all of my self restraint not to jump over the table and capture Rachel in my arms. After everything I've done to her, including ignoring her for an entire week, she's still able to believe me when I say I care. Rachel may seem to have an easy time of keeping the past in the past, I don't. We may have talked for over an hour about what happened during the week I shut everyone out and she seems to be over it, but the new information she supplied me that day has stayed with me. Even through all of that, she is able to see…no, to _feel_, just how much she means to me.

Thinking about it causes a twitch to travel through my arm. Rachel leans forward and grabs my hand, running her thumb along the back of it right as a server brings us our food. He takes one look at our hands and grins, telling us if we need anything else to just walk over to the counter and ask for his assistance. In Lima, I probably would have pulled back as discreetly as possible, making sure no one saw us this close- even if it isn't intimate. But here, with courage reinforcing the cracks in the wall inside me to stay open, I reach my hand over the table and cover Rachel's completely before picking up my fork.

As Rachel is about to take her first bite, the bell sounds, signaling that someone has just entered the shop. I turn around in my seat to face the door and one look alerts me that it's about to begin. Over at the stage a little more than three feet away from us, a microphone and a stool are being set up by the older gentleman that was behind the counter. A few words are spoken to the person who just entered the shop by our waiter and I tap Rachel's hand to get her attention.

"Hey, look over there," I point to the register where the latest guest to arrive is chatting animatedly with a few of the workers. Rachel's fork drops to her plate and her eyes go wide with excitement.

"Hello everyone," the old man begins from the stage, "and thank you for stopping by E. Claire's today." Our attention is alerted to the man standing a few feet in front of us, adjusting the microphone stand to his height. He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief from his front pocket and clasps his hands together when he's done. "We have a very special guest for you all today," He motions his hands to the counter, where everyone's in the shop now directs their attention. "I had the very good fortune of teaching this young lady some time ago and now she's here to share with you some of the things she's learned in New York City. An understudy to main character Felicia in the musical _Memphis_, please welcome to the stage Monette McKay!"

Being raised in the house I was raised in, I've always believed in 'Divine Intervention', and when I first began this search I was sure enough it kicked in. Not only had I found the only tea house in 300 miles that served vegan food, but the owner just happened to be a Broadway junkie. To add to the already maddening number of coincidences, a former student of the owner just so happened to be a part of the ensemble cast of a musical Rachel so desperately wants to see. I nearly collapsed when I saw the advertisement on their website for E. Claires' latest tea house speaker.

With her crop of curly dark-brown hair and dimples deeply set in place, Monette makes her way to the stage, stopping to give her former teacher a hug and a kiss on the cheek before taking her seat. She takes the microphone from the older gentleman and twirls it between her index and middle finger while giving the crowd a once over. Rachel, who was previously buzzing, has become completely silent as she watches the woman on stage begin her tales of the big city; Rachel's mouth shakes with excitement at every one of Monette's stories.

Aside from the few laughs from some of the funnier tales, the crowd is silent too, watching her with wrapped and complete attention. Though we are the closest table to the stage, Rachel has begun to lean forward in her seat, placing her elbows on her knees while cradling her head in her hands. The way Rachel pulls her knees to her chest when she lifts them onto the seats, as if she can somehow live vicariously through Monette's stories, is as captivating as the stories themselves. I constantly shift my eyes in Rachel's direction, watching her play with the ends of her jeans as Monett talks of Brooklyn and Broadway and what not to eat before a show to reduce nausea.

Naturally, when Monette's time slot draws to a close and she announces that she will be leaving soon, Rachel is the first one with her hands together, clapping at the rest of the shop catches on and Monette takes a bow. When she opens the floor for questions, I can she visibly shudders. She looks over to me, eyes wondering and inquiring whether or not she should actually raise her hand. Without so much as hesitating, I nod in her direction. Her hand immediately rises in the air.

Monette does a little jump in her seat at how enthusiastically Rachel shoots her hand up, and nods to the seat across from me. Rachel's face goes wide once again and she smooths out her shirt before folding her hands neatly in her lap. "What's your question?" Monette asks sweetly.

Nervousness appears before Rachel's face and she twists her fingers around a stray string on her shirt. I attempt to bring a hand over to Rachel when she drops her head to look at her fingers, but stops when she brings it up a second later. Timidly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in the process, she asks, "What's it like singing in front of all those people night after night? The stage, the lights… all of it."

Monette looks as though she's rolling the answer around on her tongue, searching for an appropriate response to Rachel's question. She crosses her legs, putting the microphone back in the stand, before answering,

"It's a surreal experience," she starts, taking her time with each word. "A really surreal experience, actually. I think anyone who has ever been in a singing, dancing or acting class has wondered what it would be like to perform on stage for hundreds, even thousands of people. Actually doing it, though, is completely different."

"It's everything you've ever imagined multiplied by 100. When you're on stage, the audience is all that matters. You're surrounded by all of your cast mates, most of whom become your best friend and something extraordinary happens. Being a part of a group that performs for hundreds of people every night heightens the experience and you transcend yourself. You're no longer involved in just being a star, but you become one with everyone around you; everyone from your fellow actors, to the musicians to the audience members. There's this force - this energy - that turns you from one lone star to one entire entity on stage."

"The feeling is different every time, so I can't describe how it feels to perform for that many people night after night, but I can tell you that it's more than you've ever imagined," she pauses, taking in a breath, "It's definitely a weird feeling, but in that moment, you become bigger than your body."

Someone in the back starts a slow clap and soon enough, the entire room is erupting with cheering. Monette gives Rachel a wink, who has buried her chin in the small space between her legs and her chest, before taking another question from someone else in the tea house. As usual, Rachel's ears perk up and she looks over at me, her right cheek up against her knees, and smiles at me so wide that the crack in the crack in the wall inside me permanently chips. A piece, the size of Rachel's smile, forces its way out of the crevices of that wall and shatters right here on this tea house floor.

Eventually, the commotion dies down and Monette attempts to make a quiet exit, returning the atmosphere of the café to the way it was before she entered. Before she leaves however, she makes her way over to our table and stops in front of Rachel. Extending her arms, Rachel almost jumps into them, squeezing so hard that both Monette and Rachel turn a light pinkish color. She whispers something into Rachel's ear, something that I can't make out from my distance, but it nonetheless causes Rachel's entire body to turn to putty on the spot. Her legs look as though they've given out and if it weren't for the fact that her arms were wrapped firmly around Monette's chest, I knew she would have fallen. Prompted by a few other patrons, Monette pulls away from Rachel and moves to the next onslaught of people asking her questions about her life in New York City.

It feel like an eternity before Rachel can pull her eyes away from the back of Monette's head after she exits the shop. She keeps her eyes firmly on the door; her bottom lip still quivering much like it was during Monette's entire time in the shop. The absolute awe in Rachel's face, the way her cheeks are still tinted pink and the way her eyebrows have gathered in the center of her forehead as if she's trying to discern whether the events of this afternoon were actually real or some figment of her imagination, is breathtaking. Rachel turns to me, her eyebrows still knitted together and her mouth still agape, watching me with astonishment lining her eyes.

I don't know where this confidence has come from, but I smile, grab my fork and point to the food in front of Rachel that has long been forgotten. In an attempt to play it aloof, I let out ever so coolly, "You really should finish your food, Rachel. It's getting cold."

Rachel lets out a burst of air, scoffing almost at my calm demeanor. "You planned all of this, didn't you?" Her eyebrows are still in the same position, and her expression has not changed. "You planned and timed all of this perfectly- the strawberry picking, the tea shop. Even Monette. You _know_ how much I want to see _Memphis_…" She lets the words hang in the air, watching my façade and looking for something in my calm demeanor to change. "I can't believe you did all of this."

Reaching across the table, I refill Rachel's mug with fresh water when she wraps her fingers delicately around the handle. She chuckles to herself, watching the steam from the hot water float up above us. In the middle of her taking a sip, I clear my throat lightly,

"Doing," I correct with a straight face.

She quirks her head at my comment, confused at my choice of words.

Smiling, and letting my cover go, I correct once again, "'I can't believe you are doing all of this'," the mug fumbles in Rachel's hands, but I reach out in time and take it from her. "It's not over yet," I let out in my natural whisper, "not even close."

* * *

><p>The new surge that has come over me has surprisingly maintained its grasp on my conscious and unconscious mind and nearly 6 hours after leaving the strawberry field, I feel just as confident in myself. Sure, there are occasionally nagging thoughts whenever I move to close to Rachel out of fear that somehow she'll just know how I feel about her, but those thoughts are quelled whenever Rachel's fingers wind between mine or when she slips me one of those smiles that I've yet to see her give anyone else but me.<p>

The same smile she's giving me right now as I turn down a side street and into a parking garage.

"What?" I ask with mock-anger.

A light punch lands on my shoulder, much like earlier, only softer. "You know exactly what Quinn Fabray," she counters, pulling her left leg under her in the passenger's seat. "I cannot believe you sometimes."

I quirk an eyebrow, but keep the banter going. "So you don't like all of this?"

"Of course I like all of this," she answers immediately, leaving me no time to say something else, "Who wouldn't like all of this? And I've enjoyed every moment of it… it's just..just.."

Her hesitance to finish her sentence worries me. I find the first parking spot in the garage I see and pull into it, shutting the car off and leaning over the center console.

"What is it?"

She does what she does whenever she's nervous, which is twirl her fingers around one another and duck her head. Keeping my eyes on her, I reach out and place my hands on top of hers, hoping that I'll somehow transfer some of my confidence to her. Her fingers stop moving, and I cradle her hands in mine until she finds the words.

"I'm usually the one doing things for people." Her voice is the only sound coming from the garage, aside from the faint hum of another car in the distance. "I'm the giver. I know most people think I'm selfish all the time, and I admit that I am quite selfish, but I've been working on that."

I open my mouth to counter what she's saying, but she quickly shuts me up by shaking her head and cutting me off, "Don't try to comfort me, Quinn. I know how I can come off to people; most of the time they just see me as a solo hog with a big mouth, but I've been changing. I'm just used to people giving me things besides my fathers unless they want something in return."

She sits there, with her head hung low, looking at our conjoined hands while I stare with my eyebrows rutted together. My own head sinks low for a moment before I pick it back up- it wasn't so long ago that I thought the same about Rachel. Before this summer I barely thought anything more about Rachel than how she just described. Getting to know her though has shown me a whole new side to her, the compassionate side that most people barely get a chance to see before they automatically write her off as selfish. After everything she's put up with me so far this summer, I'd say she's one of the most selfless people I've met.

And she should know it.

"Rachel," I say as I tighten the hold I have on her hands briefly, "You are nothing short of selfless." She doesn't lift her head, but she does shrug her shoulders. "And I told you, I'm doing all of this because—"

"Because you want to. I know, I know." She's brought her head up to face me, laughing at her own choice of words. Rachel sucks in a bit of air and finishes with, "It's just a lot to take in, you know." I can't help but laugh at her mantra while Rachel reverses the positions our hands are in and holds my hands in her own. Running her fingers along the back of my hands, she lets out, "I must have repeated myself around twenty times already, but I really do appreciate all of this."

There is silence between us once again, but it isn't filled with unsaid words from Rachel like before. Much like in the field, it's a silence that only makes me aware of only Rachel and myself, even in a place like a parking garage- she somehow always manages to make me forget the rest of the world. Rachel's hands are not idle, and she continues to move them along my hands and up my wrist, all the while keeping her eyes on her work. Watching her now, with the slight formation of wrinkles converging on her brow as she moves her hands up and down, is the same concentrated look she has whenever there is music involved. Whether she is making up her own lyrics or practicing her scales for an upcoming performance, she has the same look on her face. It reminds me of our purpose here and I glance towards the watch on my left wrist to check how far along we are.

It's time.

"Hey," I whisper, tickling the underside of her hand when she moves it over mine. "We've gotta go."

Understanding, Rachel releases my hands and unbuckles herself. "Of course," she tells me, "the ever punctual Quinn Fabray."

I grab the necessary items from my bag and send a smile in Rachel's direction. "Would you have it any other way?" I ask playfully.

"Of course not," she answers as we both exit the car and make our way out of the garage.

I won't pretend out of all of the other events I had planned for today, this is the one that gives me the most worry. I drove miles and miles away from Lima to get to the last destination, and though I'm not having second thoughts about the activity, being surrounded by all of these people in this city does have me on edge. Here, in a city I've never been in before, walking to a destination I've never been to in clothes that aren't mine does cause the confidence I've had for the better part of the day wane. I also won't pretend either that I didn't memorize every street and avenue that Google Maps gave me when I looked for directions to the venue. The blueprint in my mind is carefully mapped out as Rachel and I weave in between crowds of people to our final destination. Being a city girl at heart, Rachel is absolutely savoring in the tall buildings and hordes of musicians playing on the street in the summer's eve. I on the other hand, am secretly starting to perspire at the pressure. This may be the last thing on our list for today, but it was the first thing I planned. Here and now, when we are a few blocks away from the beginning of the end, the nerves are starting to make their rounds.

Rachel has grabbed onto the crook of my elbow, making sure that I don't stray too far from her in my frantic movements towards our final checkpoint. I hadn't even realized that I had somehow gotten ahead of her. It seemed like only a minute ago that she was commenting on some boutique in the previous block, but looking around at the sun, I realized that must have been a while ago.

Noting that we've almost arrived, I turn around to face Rachel, stopping her from walking ahead of me. She smiles, letting her hands fall from my elbows to my hands, all the while looking as though she is trying to contain the urge to jump up and down.

I smile out of instinct and hope that is somehow masks some my fear. "This last thing is, uh, it's supposed to be, uhm," Dammit. My nerves are running a course straight from my heart to my mind, taking away my ability to formulate proper sentences without tripping over my own tongue. "I hope that you'll, uhm— I want to surprise you."

Rachel's eyebrow slightly perks up and she opens her mouth for the briefest of seconds before saying, "You really don't need to surprise me any further. This whole day has been one great surprise and," She stops talking when I shake my head.

"Not like that— I want to—" I take a step closer to her, ignoring her personal space, and place my hands on both of her shoulders. "Do you trust me?"

Without even taking a second to think about it, she answers, "Of course."

I smile, reassuring her by rubbing my thumbs in large circles on her exposed collarbone, and take a few steps to the side until I am behind Rachel. Stopping my movements on her shoulders, I move my hands to cover her eyes, and whisper in her ear, "Follow my lead."

Traffic around us has pretty much stopped, aside from the few cars passing us by in the street. The sidewalk is sprinkled here and there with a few pedestrians, and I use this to my advantage, guiding Rachel down a sidewalk with only my unsteady steps and shaky breath in her ear.

"If it were anyone else but you," Rachel tells me while I direct her around a corner, "this would seem like the start of a horror film: teenage girl being led down a street with someone holding their hands over her eyes."

I chuckle in her ear, watching as the hair around her ear moves from my breath. "I would hope I'm the hero and not the villain."

"Not to be stereotyping, but in that outfit, it could go either way."

Slowing down because I can see the lights up ahead, I say, "I thought you liked my new look."

"I do," she pauses, in her movements and in her words. "I really do, actually." Rachel's voice grows thicker and she enunciates every syllable before she shakes her head softly and continues walking. I try to maintain the six inch distance between her back and my front as I try and swallow down her words without my imagination taking them for something they aren't. "I do adore your usual style, however. This one is a bit of a change, but a welcomed one."

"It's only for one day," I clarify, stopping a few feet from the entrance. "Are you ready?"

She wastes no time in nodding enthusiastically, running her hands along her jeans in anticipation. I take a step to the side, putting myself closer to Rachel to gage her reaction, but keeping my hands over her eyes. She licks her lips, turning her head lightly to either side waiting for me to reveal to her what I've been setting up for the better part of a week. Slowly, I let my hands fall from her eyes and watch as her mouth falls open when she sees the sign on the overhead.

**GOD IS AN ASTRONAUT**

**PERFORMING TONIGHT**

**SOLD OUT**

She told me that despite the number of concerts she's attended with her parents, she has yet to attend a concert with a friend. Moreover, she has never attended a rock concert. Of the number of instrumental bands that Rachel has introduced me to over the past few weeks, a frequent one has been God is an Astronaut. When I saw that they were doing an impromptu tour in the United States, I knew I had to take Rachel.

To my left, she still hasn't moved, but she has had her eyes fixated on the bright sign a few yards ahead of us. Her expression hasn't changed, and it honestly worries me. I never really thought of Rachel as the rock concert type, even after she expressed wishes about going to one, and watching her now is giving me doubts. Oh no. Perhaps this is wrong. Perhaps this is all wrong. I know that music is her life, but maybe certain things should stay confined to the space of her bedroom. Perhaps all of this was for naught and I should have never—

"How did you do all of this? How are you doing all of this?"

Rachel's voice beside me is small, but not the insecure kind of small, but the small voice she uses when she is in complete and total disbelief over something. She's facing me now, moving around so that the front of her body is facing me completely. Around us, the other concert goers are entering the venue, handing their ticket to one of the several club employees outside, while we stand looking as though we're having some sort of face-off.

I let my hand grip the tickets in my back pocket, I say rather quickly, before the nerves take control of me again, "I hope you, uhm, I hope you like it. I originally wanted to take you to see Long Distance Calling, the first instrumental band you let me listen to, but they weren't playing in the US." I watch her, and run a hand through my hair when she makes no changes to her posture. "But I know you like God is an Astronaut, so I thought you might like this just as well." I tug at the collar of my shirt, "Hence the outfit. We're going to see a band with 'God' in it and I wear a shirt saying, 'Hell is so Hot Right Now'. It's supposed to be a clever play on words or something like that."

Bringing a hand to the back of my neck, I try to cool down the wave of heat moving up through my spine. "That's also why I wanted you to wear jeans. I mean, I doubt things will get really out of hand at the show, but I just thought you would be more comfortable in a pair of jeans at a rock concert than a skirt. I don't think the crowd would get too rowdy, but you never know."

Without finishing my thought, I kick around a few cigarette butts and litter with the toe of my boot, and look up at Rachel to judge her expression. Nothing's changed. She continues to stare at me wide eyed and open mouthed. Sighing, and about to give in, I simply ask, "Do you like it?"

I'm surrounded by a face full of brown hair and an armful of Rachel when she launches herself at me. A dumbstruck smile takes over my face when Rachel wraps her legs around my waist in order to pull herself closer to me, so I wrap my arms around her legs to support her. The nerves that have had a hold on me, digging deep into the crevices of my brain and infecting the carefully crafted plan I made for Rachel, seem to dissipate as my body slackens against hers. I breathe out heavily through my mouth, smiling into Rachel's neck when she pulls her head closer towards mine. It feels like everything I've worked for towards today has paid off. I did right. I finally did right.

She rests her forehead against mine, grabbing onto both of my ears with a sense of urgency as her breath comes out in short bursts. Rachel's fingers tease my scalp, moving in tight circles when she plunges her fingers deeper into my hair. Her thumbs follow suit and in contrast to the rest of her fingers, Rachel moves them in large, slow circles around the tops of my ears and down. That… that feels good.

My footing stumbles from the vibrations Rachel's sending through me, and I take a step backwards when my legs start to wobble. Keeping her forehead rested against mine, she arches her back slightly, moving her hands away from my ears and down to my shoulders. When she licks her lips and smiles right afterwards, her lips so close to mine, I realize the position we're in: Rachel in my arms, with my hands around her hips, while she leans breathlessly onto my forehead. I should pull away, and study the faces to the passerby's to see if they can see the thing I've been trying to hide from Rachel, but I don't. I realize, as Rachel opens her eyes to capture mine in an intense gaze, I realize that I don't care. All that really matters is the girl in my arms and the feeling she's sending straight through to my core.

"Perfect."

"Hmm?" Her hands on my shoulders push away gently, and one by one, Rachel unravels her legs around my waist, slowly sliding down the backs of my calves until she is standing mere inches from me. She has this flustered look about her, the way she places her hands under her bangs, ruffling them as she continues to stare at me.

"What I meant to say was that this whole day was perfect." She licks her lips and brings a hand to my cheek, where it ignited the moment the pads of her fingers land on my face. "This whole day is perfect. I—" she stops to remove the hand on my cheek and place it in my hand, "I don't think I could ever thank you enough."

My eyes flit around Rachel's face, and I try my hardest to conceal the toothy smile trying to break through. She still doesn't understand that all of this is my way of saying 'thank you' to her, but she will. Clasping my fingers over hers, I nod towards the club, "Shall we?"

The way Rachel's entire face brightens at my words is enough to make the rest of the nerves fade into nothing as Rachel leans her entire weight into my side. Together, hand in hand with Rachel leaning against me, we walk up to the entrance of the club. Despite the line wrapping around the corner of the block, I walk straight up to one of the workers standing outside with a clipboard. He lifts an eyebrow at my forwardness, but once I hand him the tickets, he scans them and waves us inside. There are a few groans from a few of the people in the front of the line, and beside me Rachel is staring at the bouncer as though he did something illegal, but I usher her inside.

"VIP," I whisper in her ear as we walk through the large, glass double doors of the main floor. She starts to nod in understanding, but the moment we walk through the opening of the dimly lit club, Rachel's attention is on everything else around us.

As much as this is Rachel's first time at a rock concert, it's my first time at any type of concert. There are drapes on either side of the stage, drawn together to mask the people running around the curtains where only their shoes give away their positions. To our right is a bar, where a few of the other guests who were also let in early are convening, discussing everything from A-ha to ZZ Top. Judging by the others, my short shorts and fishnets fit right in among the parachute pants and multiple pierced ears. Above us there is a wrap-around balcony where booths are set up, no doubt for club promoters or celebrities to unwind away from the crowd. Rachel continues to hold onto me tight, bopping her head to the filler music filtering down upon us from the speakers above while the rest of the crowd makes their way inside.

"I'm so wound up I can't tell if I'm nervous or excited," she admits, leaning up on her toes to whisper in my ear. The music has gotten louder, and without either of us knowing, we've somehow shifted towards the left side of the club as hordes of people brush past us to get closer to the stage. I want to shield Rachel from any sort of rowdiness that may ensue (After Puck demonstrated for me what a mosh pit was and almost roundhouse kicking me in the face while I was pregnant, I really don't want to find out if they do those sort of things here), but I don't want to keep her too far from the stage. I move to her side, keeping her against the wall and putting myself near the other guests in case anything bad happens. Rachel understand what I'm trying to do, especially after standing up taller when some guy walks a little too close to the private bubble I've created for Rachel and myself. She squeezes my hand harder and leans closer to my shoulder as smoke fills the room.

"It's okay to be a little bit of both," I whisper, cupping my free hand around her ear so that she can hear me over the bass that's pumping through the venue. The fans have turned on, to combat the intense amount of heat emitting from each body in anticipation, and Rachel clamps down on my hand. The music above us fades, so I turn to Rachel, feeling the house literally shake from eagerness, who opens her mouth to speak,

"I absolutely can't wait—"

A high pitched noise pierces through Rachel's words, and the crowd seems to catch on fire at the solitary note from the guitar. They move, en mass, as one when the curtains move to the side, revealing the quartet that has become a part of the soundtrack of everything that Rachel and I have become. Rachel's breath hitches beside me, her fingernails digging into the skin of my forearm. When I turn to place my other hand on top of hers, she releases a high pitched scream that weaves its way among the hundreds of other screams around us. Watching Rachel scream, under the multicolored rave lights going off, makes this face-shattering smile take over my features. While still holding onto my hand, Rachel continues to jump up and down, opening her mouth to let out screams here and there whenever the song changes or reaches its peak.

This atmosphere, where everything is dark except for the light-show and the bodies next to you are moving as one, is hard not to get caught up in it. My legs are moving on their own, and the next thing I realize, I'm wrapping my arm around Rachel's midsection and jumping up and down right along with her. I don't know whether it's the purple haze from the smoke machine or the flashing lights that infecting my conscious mind, but the feeling from the Strawberry Fields hits me hard, square in the chest. It's the same, in the sense that my inhibitions are gone and in this infinite feeling that I have between Rachel and myself, only heightened. Between the house moving as one, the melodic notes from the men on stage and the feel of Rachel's breath in my ear when she leans over to whisper lyrics in my ear, I'm lifted high into the rafters above my head. This must be one of those 'out of body' experiences everyone talks about when they're on some kind hallucinogens, I've seen Santana take her fair share of things, and although I haven't actually taken anything, the feeling is there.

As the band continues to play on, the projector behind the quartet displays video-footage of space, some real and some imagined, adding to the illusion created by the rave lights and fog machine. Rachel's hand flies up beside me and she traces the outline of the constellations as if they were right in front of her, close enough to reach out and grasp one. Just like in her bedroom, I read her lips as she maps out the stars with her hands, pointing and weaving her hands in the air while she dances along with the other bodies in the room. On instinct I move with her, pushing my body to the limit while a set of stars burst free in my chest with each brilliantly executed note. The stars erupt free from my throat in high pitched laughter, lining my chest with courage and happiness and adrenaline all at once. It builds and soon Rachel's hands are on my own, forcing the safety net I had around her waist to be removed. She's dancing - _we're _dancing – like we're back in her room, just listening to the band playing for us and us alone. The entire room around us dissolves into black and all that is left is pure energy of the music, the people and Rachel's body against mine.

In that moment, when Rachel pulls my head down to place her lips tenderly on my cheek, all that is around us becomes the constellations; billions and billions of brightly burning light pointing me in the direction of home. And Rachel is the center of it all.

* * *

><p>Despite how animated Rachel and I both were on the drive over, her hands drumming against the dashboard while I could barely contain myself in the driver's seat, the car is silent. My body is still afire and the heat from the club hasn't left me, regardless of the length of the drive back to Rachel's home. It feels as though the night is on me, still as captivating as it was inside the club, weaving through me with warm feelings and a trembling breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rachel wring her hands in her lap, staring out at her house from the passenger side window. Turning to look at her, I can't help but wonder what is going through her mind. I've been so caught up in the intricacies of today's events, I haven't really had time to consider the end of it all.<p>

I bring my attention to the nearly empty street outside, looking out into the black abyss where the only movement is the occasional car passing by in the near midnight hours. My intentions may have been clouded with the idea that this could be more than two friends hanging out, but even now, with my body buzzing from my brain to my boots, I know that could never come to fruition. We had fun, and though I allowed myself more freedom than I should have, there is no confusion about where this relationship is going. We are friends, all we will ever be is friends, and I am content on maintaining that. Still, this uneasy feeling surfaces through the confidence as I wonder what she's thinking. I have definitely crossed some boundaries in our friendship today, but I hope that it wasn't taken—

"Do you want to come inside?"

Her voice, a clear beacon through the haze, brings me back inside the car and forces all of my attention on her. She's still wringing her hands in her lap, seemingly unsure of her own words, but she does a good job at containing the tremor that wants to break through in her voice. I almost wouldn't have noticed it if it wasn't for the way her lower jaw is trembling.

"I- I know it's kind of late, but my fathers have gone out for the evening. Their monthly trips to Pittsburg just happen to coincide with this weekend." She laughs, only out of nervousness when she says, "No uncomfortable situations here." Rachel laughs again, this time ducking her head and folding her hands over one another. "I'd understand if you don't want to. After everything you planned today, I know you are probably tired, but I," she closes her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts before looking at me almost desperately, "I honestly just don't want this night to end."

"Neither do I." The words leave my mouth a bit too quickly for my liking, but the way Rachel smiles at me, all teeth and gum, makes it okay. "I'd love to come inside."

When we're both out of the car, Rachel takes the lead and pulls me inside her house and upstairs like she's done so many times before. Being in her house in the dark however, where I can't see the photographs of her parents on the wall or see the third step that creaks whenever you step too hard on it, feels different. The excitement from before is still coursing through my veins, pumping adrenaline to and fro inside of me, and I definitely feel it sneaking through the Berry household. As if it's our secret that I'm here. A secret we're sharing, alone and in the dark.

Rachel heads into her room first, brightening the otherwise dark house with an abundance of pink. She does a twirl, spinning me around with her before she rushes off to her desk and sifts through her music collection. I stare at her for a moment with a smile on my face, leaving the door cracked open, and make my way to her window seat. As soon as the music starts Rachel begins dancing as she was during the concert and the energy from the show returns to my chest in full force. She comes right up to me, her nose scrunched from the smile taking over most of her face, and lies down with her head in my lap and her legs propped up on the wall.

Without even thinking twice, I thread my fingers through her hair, weaving in and out of her locks while she hums to the music coming from her speakers. Her hands are folded on her stomach, no longer twisting and turning in the air like it was for so much of the evening. Her breathing is still slightly haggard and I can see her chest rising rapidly with each intake of breath. She's still wired, still buzzed from the events of today just like I am.

Under the low, fluorescent glow of her bedroom lamp, Rachel looks like star she's always wanted to be.

"Let's play a game," she looks up into my eyes, questioning me with them as they seem to sparkle in the light.

"What kind of game?" My fingers continue moving through her hair with every word as my heartbeat begins to pick up the pace. A game. I like games.

"The ABC game," she answers, shifting so that she removes her feet from the wall and the soles of them are resting on the window seat.

"How do you play that?"

"I'll say something pertaining to myself that starts with the letter A, you'll say something pertaining to yourself with the letter B, and so on," her eyes have moved from mine and are skirting rapidly around the room. She takes in a breath, her eyes halting in their movements when they return to me. "It's supposed to be a sort of 'ice breaker', but I find it fun nonetheless."

I answer with smile and a gentle rub to the crown of her head. Rachel licks her lips, wriggling her hands in her lap in the process and nods. "You can start."

"Uhm, okay," I laugh, watching her face light up when I wrinkle my lips in concentration. Hmm… something that relates to me beginning with the letter A… The image of her walking into a bank pops in my mind and I know automatically what I'm going to say. "Do you remember the girl from Carmel High who tried to rob a bank?"

Rachel narrows her eyes for a moment before she slowly nods. "Vaguely," she answers slowly.

"Well," I bring one of my hands out of Rachel's hair and use it to stroke her arm. "Her name is _A_phasia," below me, Rachel laughs at my exaggeration, "and I know her personally."

In my lap, Rachel's head whips around towards me, raising an eyebrow in the process. "Are you serious?"

I push Rachel's bangs out of her face, catching the way the light from her lamp flickers in her eyes. "Seriously," I chuckle, weaving my fingers through her hair once more, "I met her through Santana though, so I'm not as badass as I may seem."

"I think you're pretty badass," her fingers graze the multiple rings around my fingers. As confident as I am, my hand still flinches underneath her touch.

Taking in a breath, I press on. "Your turn."

Her lips purse and Rachel raises a hand to her chin. I watch her, watching how her nose wrinkles in concentration and color spreads across her face from cheek to cheek. Rachel's eyes go wide, and before I can even react, her hands cover her face in an instant. How coy she's become is absolutely adorable, and I wiggle my fingers along the side of her head, pushing her to tell me her secret.

Mumbling through her fingers, she breathes out, "When I was younger, I was obsessed with _Toy Story_," she lets her hands fall from her face, but the blush is still very visible across her nose, "The one and only pet my parents let me have, a goldfish we brought from the circus, was named _B_uzz Lightyear."

The laughter that bubbles its way through my throat is contagious enough that soon, Rachel is wriggling around in my lap, pushing her head into parts of my shirt that she's fisted at the waist. This giddy feeling inside of me, whenever Rachel presses her head further into my abdomen breaks its way through the residual nervousness from earlier, coaxing me to make the most of this moment.

"Your turn," Rachel tells me through fits of laughter.

"Umm," I start, already knowing there I want to end with this. "Is it alright if I have two for this one?" Rachel rolls over again so she's lying on her back, facing the ceiling so she's counting the constellations once again. She raises both eyebrows to let me know that it's alright. "I was raised _C_atholic, as you already know," she brings her eyes to the upside down cross on my shirt briefly before settling back to the constellations. "And when I was younger, I used to enjoy reading _C_omic Books. Hence the—"

"Hence the Scott Pilgrim reference a few weeks ago," she nods with understanding, a smile breaking free, "I get it now." I've never actually admitted this to anyone before, but books weren't the only part of my obsession with reading. When I was younger, I turned to any reading material to escape the world I was thrust into by my parents. In my free time, I devoured anything and everything that ranged from Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life to X-Force.

A moment passes between us, Rachel taking some of the new information I passed onto her. Rachel shifts once again, letting her hands toy with the small, exposed parts of my shorts before saying, "One of my favorite novel is The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor _D_ostoevsky. My father had it lying around the house once and when I picked it up, I couldn't stop reading. A bit much for a thirteen year old me, but made an impression."

If there was ever a moment when I thought I could like Rachel Berry even more, it would be now. The ease at which she speaks about reading Dostoevsky is unbelievable. It took me months to not only finish Crime and Punishment, but to understand each and every intricate detail Dostoevsky hit in his writing. And I read that last year.

"You just continue to amaze me," I confess, with so much conviction my voice that another burst of color makes its way across Rachel's face.

She mumbles, something I cannot hear, but when I lean down to hear her better, she mutters, "Your turn."

I pull back with a smile, threading my hands through her hair once more, and continue on with our little game.

"I got an _E_arwig stuck in my ear once at Cheerleading camp."

"Oh God, that sounds horrible."

"Tell me about it… your turn."

"I spent a summer in _F_orks, Washington with my aunt and uncle once during the Twilight phase. Needless to say it was not the most pleasant experience. I was an out of towner with long, brown hair who got extremely pale due to the fact that I rarely went outside. On the rare chances I did go to the mall, I was harassed and called 'Bella' every time I entered a store."

"Oh God, that sounds horrible."

"Tell me about it. Your turn."

"My favorite flower is the _G_ardenia. If you had been in my room three years ago, you would have seen my obsession. I had tons of them lining my bookshelf for good luck or something. The Cattleya is a close second in my list of favorite flowers though."

"I'm glad I told Finn to get you that corsage for Prom, then."

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait. What?

My hand stills in her head and as soon as it does so, Rachel turns, burying her head in my lap as I remove my hand from her tresses. The further she buries her head in my lap, embarrassed from her accidental confession, the more I can feel her warm, uneven breaths on my leg. That same cloud from a few days earlier resurfaces, right at the junction where my neck meets my head, in between each vertebra, pushing forward until it's in my mind. It sets in like a tidal wave, sloshing around remnants of today, along with every other day I spent with Rachel in a vortex of emotions. Swirling around and around, mixing with my memories of telling Finn on the way to Prom how much I loved the corsage. How perfect it was, how perfect _he_ was for getting it…

"You told him to get me that," it comes out in one puff of air, as the oxygen begins to constrict and twist in my lungs. Finn told me that he came up with the idea itself- he told me how the inspiration for the corsage just came to him and how he spent hours looking for the perfect one.

I feel her nod against my thighs, and she lifts herself up slowly, pulling herself away from me to sit beside me on the bench. She places her hands underneath her thighs, the same pose she was in when she found me in the hallway after Finn found out that Puck was the father during Sophomore year. Her head is angled towards the floor, she refuses to look in my eyes, while her body goes stiff and rigid. Looking at her, the way her lower lip juts out just a bit as she tries to control herself, forces that tidal wave to hit the confidence I've built up, leaving only the barest part of me.

"I loved that corsage," This voice coming out of me is whispering, some broken thing of what's left of me. "Finn even got a got a green ribbon to match my eyes, he said he…" Rachel's head ducks impossible further and realization hits me harder than the tidal wave. "That was you too. The green ribbon, the flower- the entire thing was you, wasn't it? It was you the entire time."

Defeated, I slump my shoulders down and lean my elbows on my knees. Gripping the sides of my head, I try to regulate my breathing which has somehow become erratic in the last few minutes. Everything I thought about my Prom- everything I thought I knew about that day- has been shattered. I turn my head to the side and look up at Rachel from my lowered position.

She lowers her eyes, not enough to reach mine, but enough so that they fall on my collar. I pull up, her eyes following suit, and notice the way the vein in her neck has started to protrude. Her breathing has become shallow, and she's begun wringing her hands in her lap once again. My own breath begins to pick up the pace when Rachel whispers,

"You have beautiful eyes, Quinn." One of the valves in my heart feels as though it's ruptured, and I have to grip the edges of her window seat to keep from falling over. The first dream I ever had about Rachel, the one that started it all, comes back in full force as she repeats the words I've only ever heard in my head. After a few beats of silence, her eyes finally meet up to mine, and I can see the constellations in them. Brightly burning stars of all different shapes, laid out for me to see, as if she's laying herself out, right here and now. I've never seen anyone as open and expressive before with their eye, pouring herself out of them with every intake of breath as she looks deep inside of me. Her eyes are almost fully dilated now and are glistening, not from tears though, but from the stars. Shining right through from her core, where her heart should be, is the epicenter of the stars; a supernova, bursting free from her chest to shine right through her eyes.

"I told Finn to get you the gardenia so it wouldn't take away from your features," she pauses, her eyes falling to the ground briefly before coming back up. "and the green band to match your eyes. Forgive me for my frank choice of words, but there really is no other way to describe your eyes other than breathtakingly beautiful."

I'm afraid my nails are going to leave marks in the wood paneling of the window seat from how hard I'm gripping the edges. I can feel the paint chipping off and finding refuge beneath my nail bed by how much I'm holding on.

"This is going to sound crazy, I know it, but sometimes" she continues, a small smile breaking through as she reaches her hand out to swipe my hair out of my eyes. The movement alone is enough to make me visibly shudder under her touch. "Sometimes I swear that in the sunlight, your eyes change color to match your hair." She laughs at the words coming out of her mouth, tossing her hair back as she does so, exposing more of her neck than she was previously. Without her locks in the way, the vein in her neck is exposed once again, pulsing along with how her chest is softly rising and falling.

"I'm sorry," tumbles out of Rachel's lips. "I didn't mean for you to find out. Finn was working really hard to make things right for you at Prom and all I did was help him with a minor detail," her fingers have once again gone back to twirling around one another, while the rest of that wall inside of me reaches a peak. "The rest was him," she finishes, "all him."

That swirling vortex is back, the waves lapping up against the wall inside of me, trying to swallow me whole. There are only words, fragments of thoughts moving in a fury through my mind- through every crack and crevice, forcing me to confront the one thing that I've been trying to ignore for the longest. Every moment from the concert is playing back to me, where I felt so comfortable and free to hold her like I've wanted to for so long now, and is forcing it's way upon the wall I've built up to keep myself away from Rachel. To keep my feelings, whatever they may be, away from Rachel like I have been for the last few years.

A light goes out in my mind, and as I look over towards the only source of light I can find, the constellations in Rachel's eyes, I can't help but bring them down to her lips. _God_, it's always been her. I'm staring so openly at Rachel's lips, feeling the waves crash against the wall inside me, attempting to break through. A small noise pops out through my throat when she slides her tongue across her lips and the constellations begin pouring out from them. The light from them finds its way to that small place where everything's hidden, and illuminates it, no longer keeping it hidden from Rachel. Or myself.

Staring at her lips, so open and vulnerable while the waves push against the wall in one final blow, I know my nerves have committed suicide.

Screw the fucking wall.

Shaking, and near tears, I push myself forward and place my lips on top of Rachel's.

The supernova explodes upon my lips, leaving thousands of twinkling stars on my lips and hers. _Sweet release_. My eyes close at the tingling feeling of Rachel's lips on mine, and the wall inside me completely succumbs to the waves and is finally submerged. Our limbs are brushing together, my knobby fishnet covered knees against her jean clad one ones, while I lean in further towards her. I keep my lips pressed against hers all the while, not only for the sensation of being connected to Rachel, but for support. The way her lips mold against mine, keeping me against her while another supernova explodes in my brain, I can't help but think that this is where I belong. With a mind of its own, my hand slides its way up her arm and over her collarbone to cup her face. For the first time since I started this, I move my lips against hers, wanting to feel more- to see more, to taste the colors she's painted for me with her words on her lips. Her bottom lips slides down between both of mine, and my mouth moves once more to—

Rachel pulls back. Not much, but just enough so that my lips are left hanging in the air mere millimeters away from hers. My hand immediately falls from her face and I fly back so far away from her that not even our legs are touching anymore. Oh God, what've I done? She's staring at me, eyes wide in shock with her bottom lip trembling. What have I done? No longer subtle or subdued, the cloud of self-doubt comes back once again, taking out every star and constellation Rachel left on my lips. The last shred of confidence I had, bright and pure, is replaced with a large mass of unsaid words and clouded judgment. I look over at Rachel, who's sitting there with her hand atop her lips and her eyes still on mine. What have I _done_?

"I'm so sorry."

I don't give myself enough time to watch Rachel's reaction, because I'm up and out of the window seat before she has a chance to respond. The room is spinning – my mind is spinning - from each and every memory contaminated with Rachel pulling away from me. What was I _thinking_? She can never like me the same way I like her. I shouldn't even like her like that in the first place! Goddammit Fabray, how can you be so stupid! A sharp pain hits me on my forehead, forcing me to see white spots as I continue to walk towards the door. It takes me a few seconds, as I hold the bridge of my nose between my fingers, to realize that I've ran into one of Rachel's bedposts. Oh, I have royally fucked up and gone beyond the boundaries of platonic. I've- I've ruined it. I've ruined our friendship by being selfish, and by trying to have something that I shouldn't have. I can't believe I've ruined it.

The door. I need to get out of here. Now. I can't stay, I can't stay here any longer. Through eyes clouded over with tears, not only from hitting my head on Rachel's bedpost, I lunge forwards towards the door. I can see the darkness from the other side where the door is slightly open, calling me right where I belong, so I reach out to the door knob.

There's the sound of sneakers scuffing on carpet before Rachel's hand is slamming the door in front of me closed. I can see her arm out of the corner of my right eye, freckled lightly with the occasional dark brown beauty mark. I close my eyes lid by lid, because I don't want her to see me. Not like this- not when I've taken something from her that I shouldn't have. I don't want her to see how embarrassed or ashamed I am by what I did. The rate that my heartbeat is _tick_,_ tick_,_ ticking_ away is completely irregular, and it speeds up the moment I feel Rachel's breath on the nape of my neck. My mouth has found its way open, because breathing through my nostril has become too restrictive, so I breathe out in harsh, heavy breaths weighed down by my own frustration. Rachel's drawing herself impossibly closer to me, still maintaining her distance from me, but close enough for me to feel her behind me. When her breath ghosts around the shell of my ear, tempting me without her even needing to say anything, my eyes fly open as all the dirty little secrets that have been itching to come out of hiding find a home behind my eyelids. Images I've tried to expel from my mind on numerous occasions project themselves in stunning Technicolor while Rachel continues to stare me down from behind. I know I can't fix this, but I have to do something.

Carefully, with my eyes pinned to the ground, I turn around in my spot and face Rachel with a lowered head. Her arm is still on the door, that much I can see, and her legs are spread far apart, as if she's preparing for war. With an erratically beating heart and a heavy brow, I lift my head to meet Rachel. A choking sound releases from my lips, and I crumble under her gaze, staggering back until my slumped shoulders hit the door. The way her eyebrows are knitted together combined with the way her eyes won't stop wandering across my face causes me to hit my head hard against the back of the door. Rachel isn't saying anything and this feels worse than her screaming at me, which I know it coming in any moment. God Fabray, you're such an idiot! Frantically, I take my eyes off of Rachel and feel around for the door knob, hoping that I'll be able to escape this. I need to get out of this room. I need to run. It's the only thing I have left. I need to get out and run as far as I possibly can—

"Tell me you don't want this."

My body goes rigid and my hands stop it's movements on the door knob. The voice she's speaking in sounds like nothing I've ever heard before, whether it be from my dreams or not. Even in spite of my boots, Rachel and I are standing eye to eye due to my hunched over position and when I look into her eyes, they're still searching; still flitting around my face as if she's looking inside of me for an answer. Is she… no she can't be insinuating what I… can she? Rachel takes another step towards me, putting her closer to mine while still keeping her hand on the door.

"Tell me you don't want this."

This is all happening way too fast. The images in my mind won't stop flashing before me- an almost transparent screen filled with the events of today. Glimpses of strawberries and tea cups and interwoven fingers slide before Rachel's face like they were on a projector. All flashing while she inches herself closer to me, decreasing the space between my irrational thoughts and the thing I've wanted for such a long time. Ugh- my head feels like it's splitting in two! I violently bring the heel of my hand to my head, trying to dull the pain of the thoughts desperately whispering in my ear to go for it and run away as fast as I can at once. This is too much, too much for me to handle. Rachel's shifted her feet, moving to angle her head closer to me at my sudden burst of action. I wrench my hand away from my forehead, staring at her while she brings her free hand to trace its way up my arm. The moment her hand reaches my neck, slowly and tantalizingly inching its way up to my slacked jaw, it's over.

"I do," slips out of my mouth and I shake my head so vehemently it's seems as though my entire world shakes with me, "I do."

There's no smile, or words of relief or compassion from her, nothing that I can tell anyway, before Rachel has both of her hands on my head and is pressing her lips against mine. If what I felt before was release, than this must be pure ecstasy. The moment my mind catches up to Rachel's lips on mine, sliding so desperately and tenderly at the same time, my knees buckle under the sensation. To steady myself, I move my hands to grip at Rachel's waist, pulling her the few short spaces closer to me until I can fully wrap my arms around her. I can feel the constellations on my lips, lighting and igniting my senses all at once, setting a fire that I dare not douse out of fear that this moment will end. This moment, where my knees are quaking as Rachel adds pressure when she moves down to encase my bottom lip between hers, should never end.

It's not until Rachel's slides her tongue in and glides it over mine that I realize that I'm crying; my saline tears mixing along with a hint of strawberries from her lips. Rachel's running her thumbs along my cheeks, wiping the tears as they fall and guiding her tongue to twist and bend over the side of mine to soothe me- to take my mind of the tears and the fears and the sound of my brain exploding and bring them back to her. To us. I can taste the galaxies on tongue, feel the way they work their way into me, mapping her mouth out to me like a guide to the stars. I wrap my arms around her tighter, draw her body impossibly closer to mine, all the while thinking that she not only smells like home, but she tastes like it too. This is too surreal. Every passing moment, with Rachel's tongue sliding against mine so teasingly that I have to clutch at her back, is unbelievable. I have to open my eyes, just briefly, to make sure this isn't some dream or fantasy that my unconscious has created just to mock me further. When my teary, clouded over eyes land on a flushed nose and that one beauty mark on her cheek, I know it's all real.

I don't know whose legs started moving first, not that it really matters at the current moment, but I'm only aware of it until Rachel's leg slides between mine. My eyes roll in the back of my head on their own, and the only thing I can do in response is slide one of mine in between hers as well. Unintentionally, we move in unison, both shifting our hips on each other's legs at the exact same moment for the exact same purpose. Rachel's tongue falters at the movement, and she pulls her lips away from mine ever so slightly so she can look down at our interconnected legs. _Breathe Fabray, Breathe_. My heartbeat has never been this fast before - Is this how people have heart attacks? This doesn't seem like a bad way to go - and I'm panting once again, trying to regulate my breathing. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe this is _happening_! When Rachel moves her head back up to look at me, something washes over her face. Something dark. She grabs my head much like before, and pulls me down until our lips are meet once again. She increases the pace, moving not only her lips faster, but also her hips. It's a subtle increase, but enough to make me grasp at her back when she rocks her hips against my leg. I slide my hands further down her back, raking my nails down the length as way as I go until I have both hands on her waist. The next time she pushes herself against me, canting and rotating her hips so much my thigh quakes underneath her, I aid her by guiding her upwards and pushing her further against me.

The unexpected moan from Rachel's mouth that interrupts my thoughts is enough to make that familiar ache from below my navel to surface along a small amount of wetness to escape from between my legs. This time, there isn't any pool water to blame it on.

_Jesus Christ in Heaven._ I am making out with a girl. Pushed against her bedroom door. In her house- alone. After midnight. What the _fuck_ am I doing?

"I think we should stop."

Her reaction is almost instant and she pulls away from me as quickly, pushing herself off of my body, biting her lip in the process. We stand here, both breathing heavily and neither of us saying a word to each other. I straighten my back, no longer standing face to face with Rachel, and look down at the crown of her head. Though the layers of hair, I'm pretty sure I can almost see the stars still burning. Rachel is the first to take a tentative step backwards, only to walk over to the bed with her head down and sit with her hands tucked under her knees. I immediately regret my decision to speak my mind. I didn't mean for her to pull away from me completely, only enough to gather my thoughts.

Taking a few shaky breaths, with more than a few shaky steps, I walk over until I'm sitting a few inches away from her on the bed. After everything that's transpired in the last few minutes, sitting here on her bed makes me feel so vulnerable. I always feel like this with her, like she can somehow always find a way to wriggle her way inside of me and get to that place that I didn't even know was hidden. After everything we've done, after everything _I've_ done, I can't keep hiding. There's no point. Not anymore.

"I like you."

I feel like a child again. Like I'm back in Ms. Menken's fifth grade class, telling the boy from two rows down that I think he's cute. I feel so raw and exposed and so embarrassed all at once at how juvenile I am about this, not at all how I should be at 17 years old. My shoulders depress on their own will, as my mind moves along with it. The whole idea of me letting this go is ludicrous, and the dark cloud is there at the back of my skull, waiting to make its move if this goes south. Still, there's nothing left for me to do. No more facades for me to hide behind or cower in front of when things get too real. All that's left is me.

"I like you, too."

That alone makes me want to cry all over again. My lips quirk up for the briefest of seconds before I sneak a peek over at Rachel. She's in the same position as she was before, only she's looking at me now with a small smile at the corner of her lips. Though her posture looks almost as unconfident as mine, with her hunched over shoulders, she looks more like an adult than I ever have. She has laugh lines at the corner of her mouth and her jaw is tilted upward slightly as if nothing can touch her, while I'm internally freaking out over everything that has transpired. She looks like she's better adept at handling this situation than I will ever be.

"I'm not gay." I don't know why I feel the need to say this, but I tell myself that it's for her behalf.

Rachel actually lets out a small, breathy laugh and flicks her head down to the carpet before meeting my eyes once again. "Neither am I... but I like you." She breaks eye contact to look down at the floor and leaves it at that. I can see the gears turn and the cogs activate all in that one movement, and I want to know what she thinks about this entire situation, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I think I've done enough tonight. "How long have you," Rachel's voice is almost inaudible, and she pauses for a second to catch her breath, "how long have you liked me?"

She says 'liked me' as if she has a hard time believing that I actually like her. Looking at her now, as she tilts her head back up at me with the slightest bit of insecurity seeping through, I don't understand how she can think I couldn't like her.

"I think in some weird, twisted way of mine," the words seem to find themselves, unconsciously pushing their way through me when my mind can't seem to comprehend anything other than the beating of my heart when I'm around her, "I've always noticed you. Whenever you did anything, even if it was remotely small, it was always amplified to me." I expel a small amount of air through my mouth and bring my hand to run through my hair while I gather my thoughts. "I could have Coach Sylvester force me to do 1000 suicides while Santana mocked me the entire time and walk away without uttering a word, yet you could accidentally brush me in the hallway and it'd set me off." Rachel shuffles in her seat and tucks her hands a little tighter under her knees, but maintains eye contact with me. "I'm sorry," I whisper, "Other times I could have the entire school population tell me how beautiful I was, but I never really felt like it until you told me. I've always noticed you, Rachel."

"I didn't begin… liking you until this summer," Rachel's straightened her shoulders out and is sitting with perfect and pristine posture while I sort through the mess in my head. In contrast to her, I continue to fold underneath my own words, "That's when I really got to know you and to see you for who you really are. Once I started seeing you for who you really were I— I just didn't want to stop."

My stomach has started doing summersaults so high that's its hitting my heart on the way up, pushing it higher until it's nothing more than a ticking metronome in my throat. Staring at Rachel, whose whole face breaks out in a smile at my words, makes a timid one break out over mine. "What about you," I ask out of curiosity, "How long have you liked me?"

Turning her body towards me, Rachel removes her hands from under her knees and places them on the bed beside me. "It's no secret that I've always yearned for your attention, Quinn," she starts, "Everything I did was some, some desperate plea to get befriend you. All I ever wanted was to be your friend." She says this, with slight apprehension, and I know each and every word is true. Over the years, Brittany has brought this up to me on numerous occasions, informing me whenever she saw Rachel hanging around my locker after classes or changing her wardrobe to incorporate yellow headbands the moment I began wearing them. I always waved her off, patronizing her by telling her that she must be confused by Rachel's demeanor. The moment Brittany would bring up the number of times I've stared at the back of Rachel's head when doodling in class would always end the conversation.

"You never really reciprocated the need to be friends however, so I left you alone, thinking it's what you would have wanted. When we actually became friends though, I knew you were still keeping me at a distance, which was fine. No one really let's their true self show when they're beginning to form a friendship. I wasn't delusional in thinking that you would completely open yourself up to me. And then," she lifts her head to the ceiling with a smile, as if she's wanted to say this for a long time. When she brings her head back down, she tilts it in my direction with the smile still in place, "and then you invited me over to your home."

"That was the moment I began to like you." Rachel bites down on her lip, but shrugs it off with a slight smile. "I felt like in that moment you finally let me in."

I bring a hand to run through my hair once again, trying to understand everything she's said to me in the last few minutes. All this time I've been skirting around her on pins and needles, trying to protect myself from all of these emotions while Rachel was going through a similar state. The laugh that softly leaves my mouth latches on to Rachel, and before I realize it, we're both sitting in her room, music that has been long since forgotten playing in the background, laughing at everything and nothing.

"Sorry I kissed you earlier," I manage, pulling on the end of my shirt as I continue laughing.

"I'm not." The edge in Rachel's voice, masked so thinly by her laughter, makes that feeling from earlier come back in full force.

"Well, sorry I ended our, uhm," I nod my head towards the door, "you know," Rachel nods in understanding, not questioning me on my poor choice of words. "I've never ki-kissed a girl before and I just, I just," I can't even finish my statement as brand new heat surges to my cheeks, already adding to the cornucopia of perspiration building up in my palms.

"It's a first for me, too." Rachel admits with a small chuckle, turning further to face me. "But I doubt anything would have gotten too out of hand." I want to point out the 'too out of hand' to the buildup of liquid that I was afraid would have seeped through my very thin pair of shorts, but that would not be appropriate.

"I don't think I'm ready for a relationship," I confess, more for my sake than for hers. "I think I've cheated on everyone I've ever dated. I'm controlling, I'm manipulative, I sometimes care only about myself and not to point out the obvious here Rachel," I'm rambling and I know it, but I try to say the next part in the nicest way possible, "but you're a girl. I don't know if I can- I don't know if we can-" The talks and the looks and all the possible things that can happen to us here in Ohio all enter my brain at once and I start to hyperventilate. "I don't know if I can-"

"Hey," Rachel slides her hand until it's resting over mine, silencing me with one touch. "I am just as controlling as you are. On more than one occasion I may have manipulated my exes into doing something I want to do," I don't miss the small smirk that flashes at the corner of her mouth," and I have a bit of a reputation for only caring about myself sometimes. We don't have to jump into anything, okay. We can just… see where we go from here."

"Do you want to hear something funny?" She asks, though there isn't any playfulness in her voice.

"Of course."

"When we were in the tea shop and Monette hugged me after she was finished on stage," Finally the lightness in her voice surfaces, and she places her free hand underneath her bangs to push them out of her face, "She said to me, 'You and your girlfriend look very cute together'."

Girlfriend? Is that how we really look to outsiders? I didn't realize that I could be so obvious I my affection towards her. If a complete stranger thinks Rachel and I are together, what would everyone else think? Oh God, what would my mother think? The look on my face must say all that's going on in my head, because Rachel drums her fingers on my hand to bring my attention back to her.

Shifting closer to me, Rachel lets me know, "It'll be okay."

The tone in her voice soothes me, and for the first time since I sat down, I relax fully and lace my fingers with Rachel like I've done so many times before. Rachel's face breaks out into a smile once more, the kind where her nose wrinkles out of pure joy.

"With you, I know it will be."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I know I haven't updated in a long time - life came at me with a 2x4 cinder block to the back of my head - but I haven't abandoned this story. For those of you that I've lost due to the long time between updates, thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed. For those of you sticking with it, thanks for reading and I hope you're enjoying. For all of you that have sent me notes and kind words during my break, I would like to thank you all very much. Just having you all read this story is greatly appreciated and I thank each and every one of you for all of your support.

- "Strawberry Fields Forever" is a song by The Beatles.

- Monette McKay, at the time that this chapter was written, is an actress apart of the current ensemble cast of _Memphis_.

- The Twilight reference is not intended to disrespect the series or the fans. I added it in as humor, but I realize it may be taken as vicious humor, but I assure you, it is not.

- The line "my nerves have committed suicide" is inspired by the song "My Nerves That Committed Suicide" by Kaki King

- The tile of this chapter is inspired by the God is an Astronaut song of the same title.


	14. Playing with Pink

**Author's Note**: Thank you all again for reading.

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><p>I don't exactly remember how I made it home, or how I was able to leave Rachel's house without breaking down for a second time, but looking out at the garage door, I'm amazed I did so unscathed. My mind was most definitely not on the road. Instead it kept replaying those last few moments in her bedroom- our hands firmly wound around one another while we laid on our backs, staring up at the ceiling and just <em>being.<em> Tonight should have been the time for talking; it should have been the time for me to sort out the mess of my mind when it comes to my feelings for Rachel, not only for her benefit, but also for mine. At least, that's what I thought it should have been until my eyes drifted over to Rachel, whose own were glazed over with so much happiness.

An unspoken agreement passed between us, and naturally we fell back onto her bed like we'd done so many times before, listening to the music that had faded into the background take over the atmosphere of her bedroom. Neither of us said anything for a long time and time traveled between us almost as fluidly as the music. Whenever either of us attempted to bring carefully constructed sentences into our haven of laced fingers and stolen glances, opening our mouth ever so slightly that only the start of a syllable could get out, it was soon replaced with apprehensive smiles and uncontainable laughter. Every couple of minutes the voices would sneak in unannounced, whispering behind my ears and attempting trying to seize control of the words threatening to stumble out from my lips with things I already knew: _This is wrong- all wrong. It's a sin. You're a sinner. Sinner._ Every time I'd turn to her, hoping that she'd somehow be able to help make sense of the chaos in my head, I'd be met with a transient smile that turned into tentative laughter. Somehow through the anarchy going on in my mind between rational thought and years of conditioning, Rachel's laughter had the ability to quell the foreign invaders long enough for me throw an arm over my face while I turned colors, giving her back an equally breathy laughter in response. This continued for what felt like hours until the music ended and the only thing that was left between us were the rising and falling of chests and hands gripping one another tighter just for the feel of another pulse against our own.

_You have to go_, she whispered to me when the tracks began repeating themselves, _I don't want you to go, but you have to go_.

_I don't want to go either_, I whispered right back, hoping my own voice would hold out.

I could hear her take a breath beside me and feel the bed shift when she turned over on her side to face me, _We have all the time to figure this out. As much as I'd love for you to stay, I think you should get home before it's too late._

Taking the last bit of confidence I had, I rolled over on my side so I could face her. I could still see the galaxies burning beneath the surface, _Promise you won't hate me in the morning._

Rachel smiled so effortlessly and raised my hand to her lips to place a feathery kiss on my knuckles, barely brushing her lips against my hand before placing them back down on the bed between us, _I don't hate you, Quinn_. It felt like we'd had this conversation before in the not so distant past. As I watched her take in a breath and lean closer so that our head rested against the same pillow, my free hand threw itself across her waist to hold onto her for as long as I could, hoping to never wake up from this dream, _I don't think I ever have_.

And I didn't wake up. Instead I find myself sitting in my car, listening to the garage door close behind me whilst trying to maintain this level of calm that has consumed my body. By the way my hands have begun to loosen around the wheel and the way my legs have started shaking uncontrollably on their own, I know this calm won't last long. The level of relief I felt when I was finally able to be with Rachel after so long of trying to suppress every memory and thought I had of her to the deep, dark corner of my mind is insurmountable. Stepping back into my car after all was said and done, my stomach began knotting and tightening up so badly that it took me a few tries before I could properly get my key in the door without scratching the side of my car. However, the moment I transported myself back to Rachel's bedroom door, where all that mattered was keeping the infinite feeling passing between the two of us, the knots disappeared and I was somehow home.

Breathy laughs are releasing from my lips while my limp arms are trying to unbuckle my seatbelt. I can't believe that actually happened. I can't believe I actually had the courage to do something I thought I would never have been able to do. I was barely able to vocalize my feelings for such a long time, but tonight I was actually able to do something about the way my heart seemed to turn to dust whenever I was around her. Okay, so perhaps I could have had a little more tact instead of latching my lips onto hers unannounced, but the point was made. Taking sluggish steps out of the garage until I'm crossing the front lawn, my hands find their way to the back of my neck, resting there as I toss my head back with a contented sigh. The point was more than made, it was reciprocated! For a few glorious moments, I was able to stop the noises in the back of my head, telling me to run into the darkness, telling me to push her away like I had done so many before her, telling me to do all of these things just to keep me away from her under the premise of keeping out friendship intact. Even now, as I fiddle with the door handle, I can keep them at bay long enough to revel in the sweet, sweet release of everything that was this evening.

Still, I know that the voices are there. Dormant. Waiting. I know the more I focus on the 'Rachel' of the matter, the less I can focus on it not being a girl. It was Rachel I kissed. Although Rachel is a girl, saying 'I kissed Rachel' takes her gender out of it. So I force myself not to think about curve of her waist under my unsteady grip, or the way her small frame fitted so snug against mine so the thoughts can stay in the shadows. Any attempt I made to think of all those things on the drive over, they waited for me to finish those thoughts so they can slink out from their hiding spots and strike me with those three flashing letters. I won't succumb to those thoughts for now, they can wait for another day. For now, I'm going to enjoy every moment of this.

By the time the door closes slowly behind me, the jaw-breaking smile set on my face is enough for those thoughts to fade away as if they were never there. I lean back against the front door, reminded of my previous position with Rachel, and my hands go up over my head in a victorious fist pump. I'm giddy. I'm on Cloud 9. I'm euphoric. I'm—

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

I'm in trouble.

I receive a rather heavy blow to the top of my head when what feels like my mother's JUMBO Soduko book comes crashing down on me. Shit. I forgot to call her. Mother's standing in front of me, her eyes worn but wide with what looks like a combination anger and relief, more so anger at this point, and I bring another hand over my head, waiting for the next hit.

"It is 3:30 in the morning, where the HELL have you been all night!" My eyes take a quick glance at the clock on the wall and my eyebrows pull together at the sight. I didn't even realize it was this late; no wonder Rachel wanted me to leave. Mother doesn't bring her book up for another hit, but she does throw it in a far off corner and stands with her hands on her hips, waiting for my response.

"I was with- I was just-" I stammer when Mother raises her hands to her forehead as to say 'Unbelievable'. I don't think I've ever seen her this angry or flustered before in my life and it's honestly scaring me. Her cheeks are flushed a hot red, the kind of red you see when you close your eyes with your head angled towards the sun, and her hair looks disheveled as though she's been playing in it all night. I try to save myself from any further trouble by adding, "I was just—"

Before I can get my last words out, Mother is pulling me into her arms and kissing the top of my head as soon as I come in contact with her. She squeezes me against her, wrapping her arms so tightly around my neck and torso that I actually have to, not without a great amount of force, turn my head to the side so I'm not suffocated by her chest. With my eyebrows high in shock and my upper lip slightly separated from my lower one, I can't help but think that this was not what I expected.

I think the last time I even hugged my mother was after giving birth to Beth.

"Quinn I was worried sick about you," Mother's stopped yelling, but she's taken to slowly rocking me side to side in the foyer as she continues to squeeze me until I mold into her. "You didn't call me after midnight, so I thought you were already home. When I got off work and didn't see your car in the garage," she releases a sigh and presses another kiss to the crown of my head, "Sweetheart, I was so worried. I didn't know if anything happened to you or if you were unsafe, _oh_." She gives my neck another tight squeeze and adds, "Sweetie I was so worried about you."

Still completely shocked by the turn of events, I bring my arms up slowly to wrap around my mother, letting them rest on the middle of her back while she continues to rock. She's humming and whispering words things that I can't make out from how low her voice is, but I can feel the vibrations moving through her chest into me. I can't see her face from how she's holding me, but when I feel small traces of water sliding down her neck to find a home on my cheek, I know she's crying.

"Mom, I'm okay," I breathe out against her, trying to stop her tears. My infinite feelings with Rachel extended long beyond being in her room, and though I may have forgotten that the rest of the world existed when our lips were together, I did not intend to make my mother cry. Moreover, I didn't intend to make her cry because of me. "I just… lost track of time."

"I called you about 20 times. Why didn't you pick up?" Her voice comes out unexpectedly strong yet soft, unlike how I thought it would sound for a person who is crying. Reaching behind to my side pocket, I grab my cell phone and bring my arm up to where I can catch a glance at the screen from my position in my mother's arms. Correction: she called me 34 times between 2:45 and 3:28 am. Jesus, I didn't even feel it vibrate.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear the phone ring," I tell her honestly, hoping that she will believe me. The last time I went somewhere without her knowing, she thought I was with a boy. Though my actions with Rachel were pretty much the same as how they would have been if I were with one, I don't want her to get the wrong idea. "I was hanging out with Rachel and I didn't hear the phone ring."

As if she realized I was leaving something out of my explanation, she pushes me back with her hands on my shoulders and holds me there, examining my face for any trace of a lie. Oh no. She can sense it, can't she? She can _see_ it. If Monette could, why would I think my mother would be any different? My heart rate skips a beat, then picks up when Mother bends down to breathe in near my shirt.

"Have you been smoking?" she asks, pulling her face away from mine, but continuing to hold onto my shoulders.

"No!" I answer, almost shouting, the moment she pushes me away from her.

"Then why do you smell like smoke?" Mother releases her hold on my shoulders and folds her arms over one another, arching an eyebrow as she does so.

Not understanding where this is coming from, I lift a part of my shirt and bring it to my nose. Breathing in deeply, I realize what she means. The club. "Mom, Rachel and I went to a concert and they had a fog machine," I explain. "You must be smelling some of the smoke from the concert and maybe some cigarette smoke from people hanging outside the venue," she shakes her head as if she doesn't believe me, so I add, holding my arms out to her, "I swear, I wasn't smoking. And neither was Rachel."

She unfolds her arms and raises a hand to her head once again, staring at me with an exasperated expression on her face. "I cannot believe you went to a concert without telling me, Quinn."

"I'm sorry," The look on her face says enough, the way her cheeks are wet from tears and the way her eyes are the same color as the rest of her face. Trying to make up from my forgetfulness, I add, "I wanted it to be a surprise for Rachel. I'm sorry I didn't mention it earlier."

Mother releases another sigh and closes her eyes when another tear slips its way out from them. She raises a shaky hand to wipe it away and opens them as she does so. "Did Rachel get home safely?" she asks, her voice just as soft as it was before.

"Yes, that's where I was actually. I drove Rachel back home and I," Mother looks as though she's too worn out to sense the fear that reaches up and grabs a hold over my vocal chords. So I may have lost more than some time while at Rachel's, but telling her what really happened is not something I can handle right now. Right as the fear tightens its grip on my tongue, the voice leans in behind my throat, whispering, _Lie_. Mother continues to look at me, and I grasp the ends of my shirt and tell her quickly, "I came back here as fast as I could."

Silence takes over the 12 inch space between Mother and I, but before it can begin to settle, she breaths out heavily before telling me in a calm voice, "You're going to leave Rachel's number on the refrigerator in case I need to get in contact with her as an emergency."

My stomach immediately begins to knot. The idea of my Mother having Rachel's number, which means she has the ability to call her whenever she wants, is not something I'm comfortable with. Especially after all that happened in her bedroom. "Mom," I start, trying to get her to take back the absurd statement she just said.

When she raises an eyebrow, wordlessly testing me with a 'Try me' look, I fall back into myself and nod with a bowed head.

"Yes, Mother."

There's a certain warmth in the house that I'm not familiar with, this house has always been cold, and there's a tickle running along my arm when the heating kicks in. Before me, Mother clicks her teeth and waves an arm towards her body. "Come here."

I take the short, few steps and for the second time tonight, I walk into my Mother's arms. Once again, she wraps her arm around my torso, only this time, lets the other rest on the top of my head, ruffling my hair as she places a kiss on my forehead. "Don't ever scare me like that again, Quinnie."

She lets me go and takes a step back, wiping away some of the stray tears with her thumb as she leans her head towards the stairs. Mother takes a deep breath and runs her hand through her hair, "So, now that my heart is no longer in my _throat_," she pauses, making sure I feel the full effect of her exaggeration, "I'm going to bed. Goodnight Sweetie."

Taking one last time to place her hand in my hair, Mother slowly walks up the stairs and disappears down the hallway. As soon as her figure is no longer visible, I lean back until I hit the door and slide down until I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the door and my knees pulled up to my chest. Like my mother, my own hands come up to run through my hair, sighing as I do so until I can't hear the way my heart begins to bump against my ribcage in a frantic matter. When my heart finds an even pace to settle back into, I let my legs slide across the floor one by one until they are straight ahead of me. The panic and paranoia that set in when Mother confronted me was maddening. In those few moments, when she began searching around my face for any traces of deceit of some kind, I felt like she knew. As if she could see the strong grip Rachel had on my hair at every slide of my tongue against her bottom lip like were happening right in front of her. My stomach completely fell out of my body while I tried to concentrate on every word coming out of my mother's mouth, and not on the way I had to bite down on my tongue to stop my teeth from chattering. But she didn't sense it. She couldn't have.

At least, I don't think she did.

With my hands on either side of my neck, I bring my legs back up to my chest come to a standing position. Before making my way up stairs to my bedroom, I take a detour to the kitchen and scribble Rachel's name a number on a piece of paper. Knowing my mother, if it weren't on the refrigerator before the morning, she would most definitely have a conniption. After sticking it on with a magnet, I begin the slow accent up the stairs and to my room. I flop down face first onto my comforter, not even bothering to take off anything other than the heavy boots weighting me down. Despite the fact that I've been more outgoing in the last few weeks than I was at the beginning of the summer, my body is tired from everything that it went through today- physically and mentally.

I turn over on my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to picture Rachel doing the exact same thing on her bed. My left hand travels to my lips on their own, tracing out my bottom one, followed by the top, before another breathy laugh leaves them, surrounding my fingers with an air of uncertainty and intrigue. I lick my lips, trying to savor the feel of Rachel's on top of mine while closing my eyes in an attempt to transport myself back to her bedroom. In spite of everything that's happened today, if I were able to relive it all over again (with the exception of getting hit by my mother's Sudoku book), I would.

Grabbing a hold of my phone, I turn it on and take myself to my text message inbox. Already, there is a message from Rachel:

'**I realized after you left that it was already the morning. Guess what? I still don't hate you'**

I hold onto my phone like a lifeline and roll back over onto my stomach with a smile so wide my cheeks begin to hurt. Yes, I would most definitely live this entire day over. It's only now, as the light from my phone begins to face and I'm drifting off into dreams of rock concerts in strawberry fields, that I realize today was the first day in over a year that I was able to think about Beth without pushing her to the back of my mind.

* * *

><p>Despite falling into a deep, dreamless sleep almost instantly, it didn't last as nearly as long as I thought it would. Not that I'm complaining. Unlike all the other nights when I can barely get in a few hours of sleep, I feel well more well rested than I have in previous weeks. Even if the phone in my hand is flashing 7:17 am.<p>

Without taking the night off of my body, I pull on a shirt and a pair of shorts, lace up my running shoes and take off out the door. The feel of the pavement beneath my feet is barely there by how fast I'm cutting corners and jumping over neglected toys spilled out onto the sidewalk by children. My usual 'runners face' is replaced by a recurring smile that plasters itself on me as I think of the events of this last night. It breaks through the sweat emanating from my pores, coating my face in a layer of sheen and grime with a smile so achingly wide that parents and their children on their way to Day Camp return my smile with so much enthusiasm it only causes me to smile wider. Instead of feeling self-conscious at my obvious display of emotions, I only feel even more spurred on to continue, more willing to go that extra lap around the lake, despite the obvious quake and tremor in my quad. Over the rocks and around the bend I'm pushing forward, moving fast to feel infinite once again, hoping that if I catch it enough, it can stay with me until I reach Rachel. I feel incredible. I feel limitless.

I feel Invincible.

By the time I'm back at my house, my clothes completely damp and sticking to me like an extension of my own skin, it's already after 10. I hadn't even realized I was running for so long. Usually I bring my Ipod with me when I go for a run, not for the music, but to keep time so I don't over-exert myself. I learned that the hard way in my post-baby body not to run for over a certain amount when running at full speed in 20 minute intervals. I've pulled one too many hamstrings that way in the summer between Sophomore and Junior year. I'm usually much more careful, much more cautious, but it must have slipped my mind. Looking down at my extremely red legs, I grab an extra towel from the hallway closet and I make my way to my bathroom.

In spite of how hot my body is right now, I turn the shower on to as high as it can go without scorching my skin and sit in the tub, massaging my calves and thighs as the water hits me. I take my time, going over each leg thoroughly as to make sure my muscles are fully relaxed from my run. Once I'm done, I grab the extra towel that I've had steaming the entire time and take it to my bed. Resting it over my legs, I lean over to my bedside table and I pick up my cell.

I need to see her so badly. I need to make sure that she's still feeling the same way I am, to make sure that sometime during the night she hasn't changed her mind and realized that this was a mistake. That what I did wasn't a mistake.

I just need to be certain.

Invincible may work fine running through my entire town and back, but it sure doesn't work for my voice. I can already feel it beginning to waver and I haven't even said anything out loud all morning. Not trusting my voice, I pick up the phone and type out:

'**Hey… mind if I come over?'**

Fear takes over the moment I hit send. What if she isn't awake? Rachel's an early riser, but last night was really eventful. Not everyone's a raging insomniac like myself, what if she's not even up? Or worse- what if I wake her up? Dammit. I did _not_ think that one through.

As if she could hear me, the phone in my lap buzzes in response:

'**Do you really need to ask?'**

Once again, I feel Invincible.

* * *

><p>As it turns out, Invincibility doesn't last nearly as long as I thought it would. It lasted long enough for me to massage the cramps out of my legs and dress in my usual style. It felt good slipping on my own clothes and while I may have spent more time today getting dressed than I have in previous weeks, I felt like myself again. Whatever that really means, anyway. And the Invincibility lasted long enough for me to leave a note for my mother on her nightstand about my whereabouts for the rest of the afternoon. It even lasted long enough for the drive over to Rachel's house where I bopped my head to the mix tape she made me of her favorite instrumental tracks.<p>

Standing here now in front of her house, without the willpower to even knock on the door, the Invincibility is nowhere to be found. I must have raised my arm a few minutes ago to knock, from how numb it's gone and I slowly let it fall to my side, contemplating where the hell all the nerve I had on the way over went. Mouth agape and hands slowly starting to twist around the inside pockets of my cardigan, I know for sure that it's not with me now. The girl running through her neighborhood an hour ago is not the same person standing here trying to find a way for their brain to get the message: Knock on the door, Fabray. Knock on the damn door.

Without warning, Rachel opens her front door with fervor, the wind from the swift movement making her hair dance around her hair before falling softly to her shoulders. All thoughts cease from my mind at the sight and I'm incapable of moving my lips to form any semblance of a sentence. We stand here for a while, neither of us speaking and silently watching the other. Waiting for a sign to do something. Anything.

It's Rachel who speaks up first, opening her mouth to get out a barely audible, "Hi." She smiles timidly at the end of it and reaches back to rub her shoulder as she does so. I can make out how nervous she is by the way her eyes refuse to stay on me, instead finding refuge in the bushes behind me or on the tiled floor of her home. It shouldn't comfort me in the slightest, seeing her so visibly nervous by our interaction, but it does. It lets me know I'm not alone in my feelings.

"Hi." My voice comes out just as shyly as hers did a few seconds earlier. I take my hands out of my sweater, freeing them from the enclosed space and allowing them to dry from how wet they've become due to my perspiration, and bring them to rest behind my back. Rachel's eyes follow the path of my hands, traveling over my arms and down my legs until she brings them up to meet my eyes.

"It's nice to see you back in your old clothes," she has the beginnings of a smirk on the corner of her lips, but due to some force I don't know, nerves perhaps, she doesn't let it progress before she says to me, "You look nice. Very pretty."

"Thanks," I laugh slightly, trying to avert her attention away from the sudden rush of heat to my face. Unlike the majority of the time when I visit Rachel at her house, where she usually wears a pair of shorts and a tank top, she's traded them in for a skirt that falls just above her knees and a fitted t-shirt. Grazing my eyes over her outfit, I tell her, "You look great as well."

The smile she gives me in return is thanks enough, and with a simple nod, she leads me inside her home. Falling into our old habit, I follow her silently up the stairs to her bedroom, maintaining a small distance behind her as to calm the nerves that are slowly creeping up on me with each step. Noting the number of times it takes Rachel to straighten out her shoulders in front of me in the short into her bedroom, I can tell once again that she's working on fighting off nerves of her own.

We cross the threshold into Rachel's bedroom in silence and much like last night, Rachel sits on the edge of her bed and waits for me to join her. On any other day, she would normally head over to her music collection and put something on in the background while we went on doing whatever we found ourselves doing. Watching her waiting patiently for me, giving me no indication that she's about to turn on her music as background, makes me miss it all the more.

I take the same spot I took on her bed last night and sit just a few spaces beside her, giving her enough room while not totally isolating myself from her. Rachel crosses her legs and pivots her body towards me with her mouth in a line, almost like she's holding something back. She unconsciously folds her hands over repeatedly, as if she could will the thick air in the room away by wringing them around and around while keeps her eyes on the bedspread. At her body language, I let my hand rise to my hair, pushing a few strands away from my face out of nervousness. Okay, so this isn't how I expected this to go. Not that I had any real expectations after my Invincibility subsided, but I was hoping for something more from myself than sideways glances and sweaty palms.

A noise similar to that of a laugh, though not quite reaching the right pitch, releases from Rachel's lips as she throws her hands down in her lap. I turn to her, watching her shake her head when she lets out the same noise from before. "I don't want anything to be awkward between us considering all that happened yesterday," she finally relents, speaking the words that are on my mind, "Truth is… I meant every word I said."

Her eyes finally rise from the bed to meet mine, pulling at me through the way her eyes are staring at me unrelentingly. Without taking my eyes off her, I reply, "I meant every word of it too," Sighing, I angle myself further towards her, trying my best to regain any bit of Invincibility that may be hiding underneath my nerves. "I really like you, Rachel." Her ears perk up at my words and another apprehensive smile takes over her face. Seeing that smile, no matter how anxious she is underneath the surface, forces a smile to take over my face as well. I say breathlessly, "Even in spite of how confusing this entire situation has been for me to accept, I still like you. A lot."

I should be self-conscious by how juvenile I've been acting about the entire situation (seriously, I can't remember a time that I've ever went right up to someone and told them 'I like you' since elementary school), but all of those thoughts are stopped when Rachel reaches her hand over to take mine. Rachel smoothes her thumb over the back of my hand, moving it to and fro while simultaneously calming the anxiety trying to bubble up through my throat. I let out a contented hum at the sensation and my eyes lull back in my head for a brief moment. The way my body reacts to her is so primitive and open, and I wonder why is it that whenever I'm with her I always feel so vulnerable.

"I understand why you wouldn't want to rush into a relationship," the moment she tells me this, I have to move my eyes on hers as to completely not shut down. I was hoping the relationship aspect would have been forgotten in lieu of everything else that happened, because truthfully, I really cannot handle one in my current state. Being Invincible, however strong I may feel, does not delude me into thinking that I could handle something as important as that to Rachel. I would never be able to forgive myself if I rushed into something so important with her and ruin it.

"Given your family history, and I am no way imparting any judgment on them, I would understand your apprehension into entering a relationship with another female." I nod lightly and ignore the fact that she said 'another female' and immediately replace it with her name; another subtle way for me to further separate her gender from the situation and concentrate only on her. "And despite the fact that I was raised in a rather sexually liberal household when it comes to orientation and expression," she inhales a shaky breath, tightening her grip on my hands so much that I tilt my head to the side at her actions, "that doesn't mean I wouldn't be just as nervous as you are in entering a relationship with another female so quickly. So," she takes a breath and continues, "I get it."

"That being said," the tone in her voice changes completely, and she sounds like she does whenever we're in Glee Club, talking about songs for Sectionals. It's professional, and totally unlike the voice of the girl I've hung out with all summer. It seems like I'm not the only one trying to take themselves out of the situation in order to handle whatever's coming next. "I don't think we should ignore the way we feel about each other. I think it would be detrimental to not only our own personal well being, but also to our friendship."

"I don't want to ignore it." Rachel and I both wear similar expressions of shock at my admission. I hadn't even realized I said it until her grip on my hands loosened. Even though my own hands have begun shaking, I take the opportunity to run my thumb across her hand, letting her know that I feel the same. "As scary as this is for me… I'm tired of ignoring it." So maybe Santana had a point, that ignoring it would only make things worse, and while it worked for a while, I couldn't keep up my charade. "Ignoring it has led to me doing some incredibly risky things," I leave off, hoping that she'll get the allusion to the kiss I'm making. Judging by the faint smile gracing her lips, she understands. "I'm not going to ignore my feelings for you anymore."

"Was yesterday a," she stops herself mid-sentence, and I can tell by the obvious strain she's making on her fingers in my hand that she's trying her best not to wring them around, "Forgive me for being presumptuous, but under the circumstances it would be hard for me not to wonder if, um," Rachel takes her eyes off of mine and lets them fall down to the floor before starting again in a whisper, "Was yesterday a date?"

The hopefulness lining her eyes is what makes my eyes relax and my mouth slide into a wide and easy smile. Rachel's entire posture depresses, not out of sadness, but at the calm direction my demeanor has taken. I lick my lips and answer, "Maybe," I answer honestly. If Rachel has any disappointment at my words, she does a good job at hiding it, but I continue, "I think so," I start again, "I tried to make myself think that it wasn't a date but, I think some part of my subconscious intended it to be more than two friends going out together."

Rachel slides herself closer to me until our knees are brushing up against one another. Pulling our hands into our lap, she releases her hold on mine to tuck away a few locks of hair behind her ear as she bites down on her lip. My eyes begin to blink rapidly at the motion, and it's only until the fine hairs on my arm begin to stand on edge that I notice how she's begun trailing her fingers along my wrist.

"I know that we aren't dating officially but," she pauses, looking as though she's mentally taking the time to make sure she really wants what she's about to ask. "Would you mind if I kissed you right now?"

Unlike yesterday, where all I could do was nod my head so vigorously as to knock the plethora of voices in my head, today the nod I give Rachel is so small but filled with anticipation that I hope she can see it. My breath has become audible by how much anticipation is pouring out of each one of my cells, sending the adrenaline free and flowing to the rest of my body. It starts out slow, as Rachel smiles faintly before licking her lips once again while the adrenaline constricts the blood vessels surrounding my heart. When Rachel hesitantly begins to lean over in my space, her breath coming out mere inches from mine, I can feel the adrenaline moving in a strong current throughout my limbs. She continues to draw closer to me, stopping when the entire top half of her body is leaning over my legs, and as I sit here watching the corners of her mouth turn up, the adrenaline finally reaches my brain. It's hits me like a gunshot, sending the back of my head into such a tailspin that my eyes close and I'm already moving the last few inches to meet her lips with mine.

The moment they do meet is the moment when the adrenaline washes over my body completely; covering me like a shield as Rachel slowly parts her lips in the most delicate way possible while I release the most pathetic whimper from the back of my throat. I care, at least I think I should care about the sound, but Rachel's humming against my lips and all I can think about are the vibrations she's sending right through me. Rachel pulls me down to lie beside her on the bed and the moment my head hits her pillow I suck gently on Rachel's lower lip while she adjusts herself to our new position. She moves her lips slowly against mine, maintaining a slow pace between the two of us as my hand comes up to rest on her cheek. While the kisses we shared yesterday were quick and filled with so much want, today is a complete turnaround and we keep up with slow, languid kisses, exploring each other unhurriedly.

"You taste like pink," I tell her with a heaving chest and a low voice between kisses.

Rachel laughs softly, her exhales landing gently on my lips, and lifts her hands until she's tenderly massaging her fingers through my hair. Lifting a faded highlighted section of my hair, she confesses, "Apparently I have a thing for it."

She barely gives herself enough time to finish the sentence until she places her lips back against mine. My hair has begun to grow out, and the pink has started to diminish, but I know just who to go and get it fixed. I don't dwell on that right now, though. The thoughts leave my mind as quickly and they came as I focus on the girl wrapped in my arms, kissing her as though there were nothing else in the world.

As far as I'm concerned, in this moment there isn't.

* * *

><p>- The title of this chapter is inspired by "Playing with Pink Noise" by Kaki King<p> 


	15. Explore be curious

**Author's Note:** So, before you read this, take note that the rating of this story has now changed.

Also: since the second chapter of this story, I made it so that Quinn had pink highlights because of Dianna Agron's hair. It's just a coincidence that the show made Quinn's hair mostly pink, but in this story Quinn only has the highlights.

* * *

><p>I'm starting to get used to going to sleep well past midnight only to wake up in the early morning hours. Though I spent my entire evening speaking with Rachel on the phone until she could no longer hold a lucid conversation, listening to her drift off into mumbled nothings about gardenias and pink hair, my day didn't end there. After getting off the phone with her a little after midnight, when the words coming out of her mouth were becoming incomprehensible, I had so much energy I couldn't just go to sleep. After all that I'd gone through yesterday and getting to know Rachel in a way I thought I never would, there was this pent up force inside of me that I couldn't let go to waste. Instead I ended up going through old text message conversations with Rachel, watching every single myspace video that she's ever posted, organizing my bookcase by year and genre and giving myself a pedicure while finishing up four college applications that I'd put off months before. It was only after I had already vacuumed the carpet in my room three times that my mother came yelling down the hall for me to stop. After she sluggishly left my room to return to hers, muttering expletives that I've never once heard my mother say in my entire life, I realized it was four in the morning.<p>

I decided then that I should probably cool it on the Extreme Home Makeover, so I stared up at the ceiling, replaying my afternoon with Rachel several times over and once again, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I wasn't even surprised when I woke up as though I had rested for hours and saw the clock on my side table flashing 7:15. This inability to get a full night's sleep isn't that uncommon for me - it was the only way I was able to get anything done at Prom with Finn at my side - so as soon as my feet were out of the bed, I laced up and went for a run. As potentially harmful as all the health blogs I've read online say it is to get less than the recommended eight hours of sleep, as long as I'm able to get everything I need done, that's all that I matters to me. A shower and a cup of coffee later, I'm standing in my room, quickly tapping out her number on my phone's keypad. The moment I hear her side ring, I bring my phone to my ear without even giving her time to say 'Hello'.

"San it's me, Quinn. Listen, do you think you can dye my—"

"Hey Quinn."

"Mercedes?" Wait, what? I actually take the phone away from my ear to make sure I dialed the right number. When a photo of Santana giving me the finger appears after a few seconds on the screen, I know for sure that I called her and not Mercedes. "Why do you have Santana's phone?"

I can hear the distinct sound of Santana's voice on the other end, muffled by what sounds like distance ask, _"Who is it?"_

"It's Quinn!," Mercedes yells at Santana without pulling the phone away from her mouth and I release a sharp hissing noise at the action. "Sorry about that," she apologizes for the rise in her voice once she returns her full attention to me. "Santana's in the kitchen baking. What's up?"

What? Santana has never even attempted to cook a thing, let alone bake. All the times I've been at her house, it's always been microwave pizza and takeout. "Are you at Santana's house?" I move one of my hand to rest on my hips and even though I know she cannot see my annoyance, she's sure as hell about to hear it. "And why wasn't I invited?"

Mercedes actually laughs before answering with, "Calm down, Quinn. It was a spur of the moment thing."

When has going to Santana's house ever been a 'spur of the moment' thing for her? The last time I remembered, the two of them were barely beginning a friendship. Now they have 'spur of the moment' time together? What happened to both of them being _my_ friend? Exasperated, I bring a hand to my forehead and tell her, "Look, just ask San if she can give me the pink again and cut my hair."

"Quinn wants to know if you can color and cut her hair today," she's no longer screaming, and by the movement I hear on her end, I assume she's moved into the kitchen with Santana. "She wants the pink again."

On the other side of the phone, a voice much lighter than Santana's says, _"Pink totally looks good on her."_

"Brittany's there too? What the hell, was I the only one not invited!" Well, that at least explains why Santana's baking. She did tell me in length one evening about the dinner she cooked for Brittany the night of their unsuccessful date, and while I didn't even realize that she was speaking with Brittany, at least something in this situation makes sense. Still, why am I the only one not there?

_"Tell Juno to stop yelling and get her sweet ass over here."_

Sighing in Mercedes' ear, I sit down on my bed and pull on my shoes. "I'll be there soon."

* * *

><p>"I'm beginning to worry about your friendship with Santana."<p>

Mercedes pulls me in for a hug before I even make it fully into the doorway of Santana's house. My somewhat bad mood instantly dissipates the second we come in contact and I lean forward into the hug, giving her my all. Though I've spent a lot of my time with Mercedes and Santana this summer, whenever I wasn't with Rachel, I haven't been in the company of the both of them since our day at the park. That rare occasion was prompted by their mutual link through me, but the fact that they've been together in the same closed-off vicinity for quite some time now and there are no visibly torn limbs in the foyer is a good sign.

"Satan is not as bad as she makes herself to be," she tells me, guiding us to the kitchen as though she's been there several times before. I wonder just how much time these two have spent together when I wasn't around. "You of all people should know this."

"Of course I know that. It's just, weird seeing the two of you so amicable."

"The same could be said for you and Rachel." I can hear the smile at the end of Mercedes' sentence and a coy smile breaks out over my face. In a surprisingly good way, she's got me there.

Just as we round the corner into Santana's kitchen, I hear the closing of what sounds like an oven door before I'm greeted with, "Hey Tubbers. How's it hanging?"

"Hello to you, San." Once again, my quasi-annoyance is crushed the moment Santana crosses her kitchen to pull me into an embrace. She holds onto the back of my head with her left hand and pushes it through my hair that's gotten well past my shoulders, silently examining how much of it she's going to cut off.

Once she's satisfied with running her hand through my scalp, she pulls back with a, "So you've come to get your hair done, eh?" She rubs her hands together in mock-anticipation, looking over at Mercedes with a smirk, "I think I can make you look good. After all, I've worked that miracle before. I'm sure I can do it again." She gives me an exaggeratedly maniacal laugh, tossing her head back while Mercedes and I both roll our eyes and slaps me on the arm with a smirk. "Give me a minute, okay. Let me finish this up then I'll color you up."

She cocks her hand back to the oven and heads over to turn a few knobs on the door. That reminds me, "Mercedes told me you were baking. What exactly are you making?"

"Lemon Meringue Pie."

Her voice comes wistfully from behind me and the next thing I know, I'm surrounded from behind by Brittany's long arms. This is the first time I've even seen her since the Lima Fashion and Fun Fair and I immediately sink backwards into her hold. Brittany nudges me with her head, placing a kiss on the shell of my ear while her hair spills over onto my shoulder and tangles with mine in a mess of pink and yellow. I close my eyes at the feeling, reveling in the simplicity of our meeting after not speaking with each other for so long. She doesn't ask me why I haven't been up to spending time with her, or why her grip around me is much tighter than it was during school to my recent weight loss; she takes me as I am, neither passing judgment nor pushing me to do anything I'm uncomfortable with. Though I know she wouldn't think anything of my odd behavior this summer towards her, it doesn't stop the surge of guilt from welling up in my chest. I was just as close with her as I was Santana, and while I've been there for Santana throughout the difficulty they've been having all summer, I haven't been as fair to Brittany. I wrap my arms around hers a little tighter, hoping that I'll someday be able to leave everything in the past like she has, only to move in the future.

When Brittany does pull away, after placing another kiss on my ear, she simply moves over to stand beside Mercedes, placing her hands in her jean pockets and waiting for Santana to finish. I can see Santana's back tense under Brittany's presence and she continues to fiddle with the oven door. The mere action alerts me that things between them are still in a state of flux, so I bring my attention away from Santana and back to Brittany.

Especially since Lemon Meringue Pie is Brittany's favorite.

Once Santana excuses herself quietly, mumbling something about getting the hair color from the basement, I lean forward towards my friend, "Hey Britt." I'm whispering, as if Santana can somehow hear me and I wouldn't want her to, "I didn't get a chance to tell you this yet, but congrats on your acceptance to AMDA." Beside her, Mercedes gives her a series of small claps while Brittany ducks her head bashfully.

"Thanks," she says, eying the doorway Santana exited a few moments ago.

"Have you decided if you're going to accept their offer yet?" Mercedes asks while simultaneously leaning over to give Brittany a one armed hug. Brittany snakes an arm around Mercedes, keeping her eyes on the archway Santana just exited with her brow pulled together in a pained expression that Mercedes cannot see. Brittany locks eyes with me and by the way she somehow manages to grimace with them, she's telling me the answer to the question before she even says anything.

"I still have a lot of things to think about, so I haven't made a decision yet." Mercedes nods in understanding, pulling back from Brittany with a proud smile. "I mean, I don't expect a lot of colleges to be lining up to accept me because of my grades," both myself and Mercedes exchange a glance at her words, but she gives both of us a look as to say 'you know it's the truth' and continues, "but, I did get accepted to one, so that's a start. I'll choose until I see all of my choices."

"Alright, hair time!" Santana reenters dramatically and stands directly in front of me, turning her back on Brittany and holding the box of color in front of her face. By the way she grips the edge of the box, her skin tightening over her knuckles due to the overexertion she's putting on her fingers, I know her enthusiasm is a mask for the fact that she probably overheard every word of our conversation. "Let's get this thing started!"

Her face is pressed in a hard smile, and much like the skin on her knuckles, I can see the way her cheeks tighten from how wide she's attempting to fake her happy attitude. Brittany fixes her own mouth into a line as tight as Santana's, and purses her lips together in determination before she leans forward to brush her fingertips along Santana's shoulders. She knows her touch so well because the moment Brittan's hand slides forward to circle the birthmark on Santana's exposed right shoulder, she shudders out of her grasp and attempts to walk out into the hall. When Santana tries to brush past me, moving so fast without looking back that she doesn't see the way Brittany's shoulders drop at her actions, I link my arms with her as we make our way to her bedroom. She's already sat me down in front of her vanity hair and is ripping the box of color open with her teeth before Mercedes and Brittany settle on her bed.

"So, why the pink again, Q?" Santana asks through gritted teeth as she retrieves the bottle from a little plastic case in the box. "I would have thought that you would have gone for something more edgy after the pink- like purple."

The smile starts slow, growing in excitement the more I think about what Rachel's reaction is going to be to my re-highlighted hair. Mercedes catches onto my smile first, leaning over to tap Brittany who has been staring at the slightly open door of Santana's closet. One look over at the ajar opening and I can see a part of her easel shoved haphazardly in the corner. Though the outline of it is obscured by the darkness of the closet, Brittany still eyes it curiously before turning her attention to my face.

Her smile, along with Mercedes, brings back the memory of Rachel thumbing the colored section of my hair, and I sit up a little straighter in my seat. The confidence from a few says ago rushes through me, and the moment I feel the brush touch my hair, it leaves my mouth with, "Rachel likes the pink."

Mercedes raises an impressed eyebrow and behind me I can hear an audible, "Ballin'" from Santana. Brittany's expression doesn't change much, other than the way her eyes shift from my face to the strands of hair clumping together from the color. Although I know that Santana and Brittany's relationship has changed since the middle of Junior year, there really is no doubt in my mind that Santana told Brittany about my feelings for Rachel. The two have been tethered together for as long as I can remember, and telling something to one the same as telling something to the other.

"And how are things going with Miss Berry these days?" Santana applies the final stroke of color to my hair, pausing to run her fingers along my shoulders as her way of telling me that it's okay to move. From her desk, she retrieves a small dial turner and after turning it to the correct time, she places is on the vanity as it ticks away, counting off the seconds until my hair is complete. When she's finished, she takes a step towards the bed, noting the way Brittany slides over slightly before offering her a small, timid smile while patting the space beside her. Santana make's it half a step before her eyebrows drop and she sinks back, leaning against the edge of her vanity with her hands behind her back. Mercedes lowers her eyes to the comforter at the interaction, while Santana chooses to ignore her own actions completely before adding, "She hasn't called me looking for you so I assumed that you hadn't dropped off the face of the Earth anymore."

An airy chuckle releases my lips and my mind returns back to the moments Rachel and I shared in her room the day prior; the way her skin seemed to glow under the sunlight seeping in through her window, and how all I wanted to do was stay in our haven for the rest of the summer. The relationship I share with Rachel doesn't even match up to the other types of interpersonal relationships I have with other people. Though our feelings with each other go beyond friendship, the relationship I have with her is nothing like I've ever experienced before.

In all honesty, the first real relationship I ever had with someone other than the characters in my books or someone outside of my immediate family, and I'm not even sure if I've ever had a real relationship with any of them, was with Brittany. Years of having play-dates and classmates find excuses to ignore me or leave my presence before I even got a word out taught me to play it safe and keep my head in a book. At least the characters in the leather-bounds couldn't shout obscenities from me while I walked home from the bookstore every day. When I stepped into McKinley for the first time, after getting lost in my attempt to sign up for cheerleading, she wrapped her arms around my wrist without uttering a word. Her grip around me was firm, and from all of my past experiences, my mind screamed at me to push her away from me, but the moment I saw the red and white bulletin board a few yards ahead of us, I knew her intention. She turned to me with a knowing smile and a raised eyebrow, leaning her hip against a board while extending a pen she seemed to get out of nowhere for me to take. If it weren't for her simple act of kindness, I doubt I would even be able to form a real relationship with anyone without wanting to retreat to the library.

I'm not one to form many relationships with people beyond the necessary ones, something I realized after getting shunned for becoming another teenage pregnancy statistic, but the bond I have with Rachel is something completely new to me. It belongs uniquely to us, to this connection we have, and no matter what happens between us in the following months, especially after the summer is over, I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of the feeling that Rachel Berry has given me.

I'm not sure if I'd ever want to.

By the way three pairs of eyes are on me, I can tell that I've taken way too long in my response to Santana's question because of my own internal musings. Bringing myself back to the others in the room, I reply off-handedly, "Oh, you know, she's good," I nod, attempting to be just as aloof as I was in the tea shop with Rachel, "I took her out. We ate, had a good time," I pause, pretending to wipe a piece of lint off of my shoulder, "we kissed."

Santana actually drops the nail file she must have picked up while I was in my own head, and Mercedes lets out a high pitched scream at my words. Santana slings an arm over my shoulders while Mercedes rushes over to trap me in another hug, not even caring when her head comes in contact with the chemicals in my hair. The smile that's been aching to break out ever since I calmed down from my run this morning does so embarrassingly wide. My arms lift around the both of them, encasing them so tightly that I hope to convey the pure joy I get from being with Rachel to them. When Mercedes' screams die down and she returns to the bed, Brittany leans back on her elbows with a grin.

"It's about time." The way she lifts both of her eyebrows up with her grin still set in places causes the smile to fall from my face.

"What do you mean, 'It's about time'?" I fold my arms over my chest, watching her shrug her restated words off as though they were the most common thing in the world.

With a flick of her hair, she adds, "Sometimes during glee club it looked like you wanted to pounce on her. You were really never subtle about how much you hated to be in her presence, but I always thought it was because of something more than anger."

I stare at Brittany with an open mouth while around me Mercedes and Santana double over in a fit of giggles. Looking to my right for support, Santana simply throws a hand over her now reddened face while the other grips the vanity behind her to steady her as she slowly rocks back and forth. In front of me, Mercedes has taken to leaning on Brittany while she grips her sides from laughter. Taking in Brittany's words, while silently remembering what Mercedes said to me when she first learned of my feelings for Rachel, does cause a tremor to shoot through my spine, taking away my confidence and aloofness that I had during the conversation.

When a surge of heat spreads its way through my neck and up to my cheeks, I uncross my arms in defeat and turn to Brittany, "I suppose you told Santana the exact same thing when she told you I had feelings for Rachel." The strength in my voice holds through enough for me to get my sentence out, but I can already feel a quake starting to set in my vocal chords.

Brittany flicks her eyes towards Santana before settling them back on me. "San didn't tell me that you liked Rachel, Quinn. I could just see it for myself."

If I weren't sitting in this chair, I know for sure that I would have already slid to the ground due to the fact that my body feels as though all the bones have been removed. Santana didn't tell Brittany anything and while I should be wondering why she neglected to leave out that major detail, all I can focus is on the fact that she knew without anyone having to tell her. The conversation I had with Mercedes heightens to an unimaginable level while Brittany's new found words resonate from each end of my brain to the other. She knew. She knew without me even having to do anything other than sneer at Rachel from a corner in a classroom. God, how is it that everyone knew about my feelings for her before I could even begin to understand them?

"And look where my girl is now," Santana's arm shaking my shoulder pulls me out of my head once more and brings me back to the conversation. The color has faded substantially from my cheeks, as if it weren't even there to begin with, and I can feel goose bumps rising on the back of my neck. That, coupled with the incessant churning of my stomach that began the moment Brittany told me how obvious I was with my feelings for Rachel, I know the color in my face must be a sickly, pale one. "Last week she was worried about Rachel ever finding about her little crush and now she's already making out with her." The slap Santana gives me on the back should make me feel better, but I somehow sink lower in my seat, trying to make myself small.

"So, how far did you get?"

The churning ceases for the briefest of moments at her words, but the second I turn to look at the smug look on Santana's face, it comes back full force.

"What do you mean?" Feigning ignorance is the only way I feel that I can get out of this situation with her.

"How far did you get with Berry, Q?" She says her words slowly, rolling them around on her tongue so that everyone in the room can feel the full effect, especially when she raises her eyebrows suggestively.

"I had- we just kissed, we didn't- I don't know if-" The inarticulate sentences that don't quite make it out of my wavering vocal box causes a fresh bloom of red to ignite my face, destroying the paleness that once was. I cannot believe she asked me that in front of Britt and Mercedes. I know Santana isn't exactly the poster child for abstinence… then again neither am I, but that does not mean that I am quick to jump into bed with anyone. Especially Rachel. I mean I- I haven't even had time to think about something as serious as that. I could barely verbalize that I may have had feelings for her, let alone… let alone sex.

"Oh God, Q, chill out. I was just joking, okay?" Santana kneels down in front of me, bringing a cold hand to rest on my cheek. "Jesus, you're burning up. I was just making a joke, alright." Santana laughs, and pauses to punch me lightly on the shoulder while I try and regulate my breathing from how constricted my throat has become in the last few minutes. She stands, keeping herself in front of my direct eyesight, though I don't look her in the eyes. "Look, even though I'm not going to give away all my secrets on lady loving," I can feel the eyebrow wiggle at the end of her sentence, "just do what you do to yourself, only ya know, on her. You'll be fine."

I don't know how it's possible, but the heat increases in my cheeks even further, so I keep my eyes pinned to the ground, hoping to somehow mold into it to distract the others in the room from the radiator that has become my body. Why did Santana have to bring that up? I don't even do… _that_, so how could I ever even do that to another person? With Puck it was easy: in and out. Nothing to think about since I thought he had it covered. In hindsight I should have known better, especially since he seemed to know more than I felt a boy his age should, but this is something completely different. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

"San," Brittany's low voice comes from the bed, and for the first time since Santana stood in front of me, I bring my eyes to look at her. Her head is turned towards the bed at Brittany, and though I can't see her, I can hear her shuffle on the bed and mumble, "I don't think Quinn's comfortable with this conversation."

She couldn't be more right.

Slowly, Santana turns her head back to me with her brow wrinkled in confusion, while Mercedes leans over on the bed so that I can see her. Like Santana, she is wearing the same baffled expression. From what I can see, the cogs begin turning in Santana's mind first, as she fits the pieces together, both of her eyebrows moving higher on her forehead while her mouth hangs open slightly. I close my eyes briefly, knowing what's about to come next.

"You've never," Santana pauses to lick her lips, shifting her stance so that she's leaning all of her weight on her left leg, "You've never masturbated before, have you?" My lack of an immediate response sends her reeling and she and Mercedes both take in a loud breath at the same time. "Oh my God."

"Well excuse me for having more important things to do with my time than to… you know!" Defiantly I cross my arms over my chest once more, trying to shield my pride from the way they're not hiding their opinions. Santana turns to look at Mercedes, a moment of pity flashing across her features before it's replaced with curiosity.

"You can't even say it," The slight smile on the left corner of her lips is sickening. "No wonder you're so uptight."

"I am not uptight!" I shoot up in my seat, my hands clenched in the air, and though it isn't really the best body language to convey that I most certainly am not uptight, it's the first way I react. "Why does everyone keep saying that!"

"Maybe if you learn to control your own orgasms, you'll calm the fuck down."

Though I am about three seconds from punching Santana in the face, I lower my fists to my lap, trying to remove the stiffness out of them from how hard I clenched my hands together. I rub them over one another, willing the cramps away while Santana crosses her arms with a laugh itching to burst free while she waits for me to respond.

"Not everyone needs to do that, San." She rolls her eyes and returns to my side, giving me the opportunity to see Mercedes and Brittany fully for the first time in a few minutes. Mercedes is looking at me as though there is something clinically wrong with me, while Brittany sits meets my gaze with guilt; like she had something to do with Santana picking out one of the few things that can set me off. She seems to be the only one keyed in to how uncomfortable I am by all of this. "Not everyone is some sex, crazed teenager like you."

My comment has no bite, and Santana laughs beside me before leaning down until her lips are against my ear. Stating loudly enough for everyone to hear, "How are you going to expect anyone to please you if you don't even know what you like?"

The way my spine seems to have turned to dust is not from her words, at least that's what I tell myself, but from the suggestive tone in her voice and how close she is to me. Santana knows how to get to you, even if you don't want her to.

"I don't want to do that with Rachel," I relent once she pulls away from me, "I just want to- to,"

She waves her arms the moment I begin stuttering and quickly combats me with, "Forget about Rachel right now. This is about _you_, owning your sexuality." I open my mouth to stop her, because it is getting way too hot in this room and at the rate I'm going, I'm going to sweat out my highlights that have barely begun to infuse themselves in my hair. Santana shakes her head and continues before I even formulate proper thoughts, "Look, I know you were raised in an ultra strict 'Thou Shalt Not Touch Thy Self' household out of fear you'll go blind or some shit—"

"Of course I know I'm not going to go blind! Jesus Christ, Santana, just because I don't touch myself at night doesn't mean anything is wrong with me!"

The air in the entire room goes out, and even Brittany jumps a little at my words. I've got to stop it with these random outbursts.

"See, that right there's your problem. You're like a ticking time-bomb, Q. I can only imagine how horny all those pregnancy hormones made you," I'm seething in my seat, and how relatively reserved I've been about the entire situation is replaced with irritation and agitation. I'm breathing out heavily through my nostrils, trying to control the urge to wrap my hands around Santana's neck when she continues, "There is nothing wrong with you if you don't have a little alone time with yourself, alright. All I'm suggesting is to take a few minutes to get to know yourself, okay. I swear to you, you'll probably feel a whole lot lighter after you're done. Light some scented candles, lock your bedroom door, play some music. Whatever kinda kinky shit you're into- do it and have fun."

I'm going to kill her.

"I'd try the shower if I were you. The steam will loosen you up and if it does get to where you want it to go, you don't have to go far to clean yourself up."

The unexpected commentary from Mercedes has everyone in the room turn to her, and out the corner of my eye, I swear I see Santana's jaw drop. Something like that I would have expected to come from Santana. Hell, I would have expected it to come from Brittany, but not Mercedes. She's always been the level-headed one out of all my friends, and while levelheadedness is probably not correlated to frequency of… _that_ in any way, I'm still shocked to hear her mention anything of it at all.

"I mean, just wanky, Mercedes."

"That's totally hot."

"Can we just drop this? I'm getting a headache."

"Fine, suit yourself," Santana leaves off, throwing her arms in the air before crossing them over her chest with a smirk. "But in all seriousness, Q, just take the advice. You're never really going to know what you want or what you like until you try." She shrugs, folding the sleeves on her shirt up before picking up the box of color and holding it in front of her face. "Besides, you took my advice on Berry and look how that turned out." From the bed, Mercedes gives me a thumbs up while Santana lightly pushes me with the side of her leg. She may have had a hand in helping me with Rachel, but she is out of her mind if she thinks I'm going to take her advice on... _that_. "And as well as that worked out for you, what you should have done on Day 1 was go up to Rachel and kiss the gold stars out of her. Save the feelings for another day and just delight in the warm body next you."

"Because that worked so well for you in the past."

The entire room fall silent at Brittany's interjection, save for the ticking of the timer in the background. Santana visibly goes rigid beside me, her body stiffening so roughly it looks as though she's going to explode from how much self-restraint she's holding back. If Brittany's voice had come out spiteful and full of malice, I somehow imagine that it would have been better so that we know where she stands. Instead, her voice came out calm and light, as though she were just casually speaking about the morning news, and not making an insinuation to the relationship between her and Santana. She has her eyes pinned on the bedspread, like they have been the moment she decided to air out some of her grievances, and to my surprise Santana has her eyes firmly locked on Brittany- waiting for her to make the next move. The veins in her neck have begun to protrude from how wound up she still is, and she's clenching down on her jaw, as if to keep herself form saying something before Brittany does. It's painful to look at her, to watch her tip-toe around her own words in her own house for Brittany's sake. On the rare occasion she actually wanted to talk about Brittany when I was alone with her, it was always in a rushed voice and lowered eyes, so until today I was never able to see what their relationship has become since the end of Junior year. I was never able to _feel_ how heavy things have gotten between them.

A buzzing sound goes off in the back, alerting us all that the timer has gone off and that it is time for the color to come out. For a few seconds, Santana doesn't move to shut off the timer, nor does she moves her eyes off Brittany. She waits, searching to see if Brittany is going to meet her gaze and confront her about her words.

Brittany doesn't look at her, though. Not even close. She gets up off of the bed, lifting her head from its lowered position but keeping her eyes on the ground, and says, "I'm going to go check on the pie."

She leaves the room wordlessly, walking out the door with a visible rigidity in her shoulders and heads off into the kitchen. I've been so focused on Brittany and Santana that I almost forgot Mercedes was in the room with me, until she comes over to Santana and places her hand on her shoulder.

"I'll go help her," she whispers in Santana's ear, before pulling her stiff body into a hug. From my still seated position, I can see how reluctant Santana is to return the affection, keeping her head angled towards the Bob Marley poster hanging above her bed and not leaning it to rest on the girl in her arms. Her body doesn't lax one bit against Mercedes, and I see her pull away with her jaw still tight ant clenched, keeping her thoughts inside like she has done so many times before. Mercedes looks down at me, her smile slowly fading as Santana pushes herself further away from us to grab a towel, and she gives me a pat on the shoulder before she heads out of the room to find Brittany.

The chill that Brittany left in this room is still present, and despite the fact that Santana's home has always been warm and inviting, and I can't help wonder if it's been this cold ever since the two of them have been going through this. Santana's obvious discomfort over the fact that Brittany got accepted to a college in California is still evidently present, and the tension she's putting to fill void between herself and Brittany is palpable. I know Santana well enough by now to tell that she's only doing so to save herself from what may come if Brittany does decide to leave Lima for Los Angeles, but it's difficult watching Santana act this way around the girl she's been in love with before she even knew what love was is.

"I just can't seem to win with her."

Santana's voice breaks through my thoughts about her and I'm aware that she's been standing in front of her closet for however long it's been since I decided to go inside my head. The towel is gripped tightly in her hand at her side, while she stares at what I can only imagine to be her easel in the back of the closet. Like she's done time and time before, she's pushed Brittany back to the furthest end of her mind where she doesn't have to deal with it in plain sight.

The melancholy of the imagery in this moment is both stunning and depressing.

Walking the short distance over to her closet, I let my arms close in around her waist and hug her from behind. She allows me to run my arm up and down hers for the briefest of moments before she straightens out and pulls out of my grasp. She keeps her head away from me, angling it towards the closet before she throws the towel over her shoulder and walks out of the room with her head down.

Sighing, I head off into the bathroom in search of Santana, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when the scent of Lemon Meringue Pie fills the house.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe I'm doing this."<p>

Staring at the white tiles with small yellow gardenias adorning the middle as the steam from the hot water slowly begins to circulate around the bathroom, I know for sure that I have gone insane.

"I can't believe I am about to do this," I say to myself as I slowly work up the courage to enter my shower. After getting my hair done at Santana's, all I could think about on the drive home was what she said to me about… _that_. Okay, so maybe I can be uptight at times, but who isn't? Not to mention that fact that I had a baby; that can lead people to being pretty freaking uptight if you ask me.

Oh crap. Do _not_ think about a baby right now. That is probably the most un-sexiest thing to think of at the present moment. I bring a hand to wipe some water that's clinging to my forehead, brushing away some hair away from my eyes in the process. Right now I can't even tell if it's water from the shower or sweat releasing from my pores that's sticking to my face. Dammit- I'm even more nervous than when I first started and I haven't even done anything yet. Now all I can think about is a baby coming out of there. And pain. And Puck's dumb face staring at me like I was Sigourney Weaver in _Alien _or something.

Stop it, Fabray. Just, just calm down before you give up completely. Of course telling myself to calm down causes my heartbeat to speed up a notch, so I reach for the shower gel hanging in the rack below the nozzle and begin leisurely applying it over my neck and shoulders. I take my time, working out the knots in the back of my shoulders by flexing my fingers back and forth. Bringing my index and middle finger to the side of my shoulder blade, I work them underneath as well as I can from this angle to get the tension out. The one good thing about being on the Cheerios is that we all could probably end up being professional Masseuses; there wasn't a day that passed by where someone wasn't getting a massage after practice. My well expertised fingers dig in to apply the slightest amount of pressure to my back while the heel of my hands press lightly against my shoulder, working their way inside my blades to get out all the kinks.

So far so good. At least Mercedes was right about the steam- it's definitely an added bonus to giving myself a massage that I didn't realize I needed. Grabbing some more shower gel, I repeat the motions on the other shoulder, smoothing out my skin as I go along while the knots seem to dissipate into steam with each slide of my fingers. Despite the fact that I am buying time before I actually do what I came in here to do, I am enjoying myself. I know the longer I stand here thinking of the reasons to keep going over my shoulders, pretending as though a massage was the thing that I brought me to the shower in the first place, the farther and farther I am getting to actually doing my 'goal'.

Damn Santana and her ability to know what makes people tick. It's not like I haven't thought of it before. I'm a teenage girl for Christ sakes, of course I thought about- oh no. Do _not_ think about Christ right now. It's just as bad as thinking about the fact that a baby came out of the place you're about to go at, Fabray. Shit, now I'm thinking about Jesus _and_ Beth.

"I am a sick, sick person."

I force my head under the nozzle and open my mouth, allowing the water to slide in and out my mouth, attempting to clear my mind of all things so I can actually get out of here before I waste all this water and start to prune. The idea of thinking about someone to get me going passes through my mind, but the moment it turns into a full fledged thought, my brain shuts the proposal down. Thinking about someone while I attempt do this just seems wrong. The only person I would even envision thinking about is David Beckham, but somehow I can see Posh Spice hitting me over the head with a soccer ball for thinking about her husband in that manner. And the idea of me running away from her is so not getting me anywhere.

"Well, might as well just go for it."

Removing my head from underneath the water, I lean back against the cold tiles, letting myself get used to the contrast in temperatures before I let my hands rest on my hip. _Well, it's not or never._ Achingly slow, I slide my right hand over the short distance until it's resting right above the small patch of light brown. Taking in a deep breath, I quickly trail my hand down until it's resting in between myself.

Logically, I know that I'm not going to see fireworks the moment I move my hand south, but that doesn't mean that I'm not just a bit disappointed by my lack of sensation. This doesn't feel right. I know the mechanics of it, a lot of conversation in the Cheerios locker room centered around it actually and perhaps once or twice I've given into natural curiosity and looked it up before on the internet (and deleted my entire browser history afterwards), but actually putting this into practice is proving harder than I thought. Shifting, I move until the fingers of my right hand are parting myself and I slide my left hand over until they rest in the same space the fingers of my right hand were. This angle allows me to see exactly what I'm doing, whatever that is, and so I'm not fumbling around blindly instead staring at the glass shower door, which I was doing before. Looking down at myself though, where my fingers are unsuccessfully working their way up and down to no avail, I think not seeing the failure that I am is better than looking at it head on. I can't even do this right.

"This is bullshit."

The words don't leave my mouth with anger- mostly just embarrassment with a hint of frustration. I'm standing in my shower with my hands between my legs, touching myself to no use. I feel more stupid than turned on. In a huff, I remove both hands from between my thighs and throw them in the air dramatically. I turn around quickly, slamming my head against the tiles in aggravation. Bringing my body flush against the rest of the tiles, I close my eyes and try to block out the dull roar of the voices in the back of my—

A jolt of electricity, sparked by the contrast of my warm nipples on the cold tiles, surge down from my chest and straight through to my center, causing me to jump back from the wall, hitting my back against the frosted glass door.

Whoa. Ever since I got pregnant my breasts have been extremely sensitive to the feel of anything pushing up against them. It's gotten to the point where the majority of the time I have wear padded bras just so I don't accidently brush up against something. I learned that during one of our assignments for Glee club- one accidental graze against Matt sent me off rushing to the bathroom just to calm myself down. Looking down at them, I can see my nipples beginning to harden despite how hot it's gotten in the bathroom. Without wasting another moment to think, I push myself up against the wall once more and instantly feel another jolt of electricity course through me.

This time, I don't pull away from shock.

My eyes and mouth open wide from the sensation and by an entirely welcome accident, my torso shifts on the wall and my hardened nipples slide over the tiles in the most tantalizingly delicious way possible. The feeling not only causes me to brace my hands on the wall for support, but my legs also unconsciously widen as a small amount of liquid travels down the inside of my thigh to mingle with the water hitting me from the shower. I repeat the motion, bringing a lip between my teeth at the way my body responds to my chest slowly running over the cold wall, and rake my nails down the tiles until my right hand is once more resting at my hip. I close my eyes, and without taking so much as another breath to prepare myself for what I'm about to do, I take my hand and slowly ease it between the wall and myself.

The energy that bursts free from my brain to my fingertips forces my eyes open and a moan from my lips. I've never felt this before. I force my hips closer to the wall, not only pressing the lower half of my body harder against my hand, but also pressing my upper half closer against the wall to create another, stronger burst of energy from behind my eyes to my center. I can see bright, white stars burning behind my eyelids at the feeling and I roll my hips forward into my hand, positioning myself in such a way that I can rotate my fingers at a certain angle to match the way my hips are rising to meet them. If I weren't alone in this house, I'm sure the noises I'm emitting would alert something of what I'm doing- I can hear myself over the sound of the rushing hot water running over my back.

Pulling my free hand upwards to run through my hair, I bring my hips up to meet my hand once more, only this time I slide my fingers down so that I can slip them between myself. A series of unexpected spasms takes over my body at the feel of my fingers sliding down my lips, and I try my hardest to keep my shaky legs steady when I slide a single finger inside. My legs open even wider on their own accord, and if it weren't for the small markers lining the tub, I know I would fall from the rate my feet are slipping all over the place. Repositioning myself due to the way my hand is now against the wall, I thrust my hips up in time with my hand, and push into myself. My mind momentarily shuts down, and all I can see is a hazy outline of the wall while the only thing my ears are able to register is the sound of my throaty breath releasing the most guttural groans.

The feeling that's working its way through my body is indescribable and I'm having a hard time remembering to breathe from how fast my heart is pumping- from how fast my hand is pumping. I keep the heel of my hand pressed against my body, making it so that every time I curl my finger upwards, my clit is hitting right against it to push me over to where I want to be. To where I need to be. When my mind finally decides to register what's going on, lifting the veil of haziness over my eyes, the color in the shower comes back tenfold and I can hear everything as though it were brand new. I let my eyes fall to my body, taking in the sight of what I'm able to do to myself and how I'm responding to myself. I should be embarrassed. The tiny rational part of my mind is telling me to be embarrassed, but when something hits a wall inside of me, there really is no room for embarrassment.

That wall is _need_, and I am making damned sure that I get over it.

I turn around and face the fogged shower door, and without removing my hand from inside of myself, I lean my upper back against the wall and continue my motions. My nipples ache to be touched again, missing the feeling of sliding up and down the cold tiles, so I bring my left hand to knead over them while my right pumps into me with a renewed vigor. _God, this is amazing_. Rolling my hips onto my hand to give myself added pressure, I bring one of my legs to rest on the bottom closed shower door, enabling me to push further into myself as I spread my legs even wider. With my mind still reeling from the sensations, I remove my finger from inside myself, the rest of my fingers slipping when I remove it from how wet I've become, and I return with a second finger to help get me over the edge.

I'm sure I would have alerted someone from how loud my voice has gotten the moment I allow two fingers to pump in me with candor. It's almost too much, too much of a sensory overload from how hot my body has become and how I can feel each cell in my body screaming for me to just let go. The pressure is becoming unbearable, and though my foot feels like it's going to go through the shower door from how hard I'm leaning against it to keep my body from falling, I push myself even harder. I need this. I need it. With a great amount of force, I remove my left hand from my chest, and bring it down on top of my right for extra pressure.

The intensity of how hard the heels of both of my hands are pressing against my clit, added to the feel of two fingers buried knuckle deep inside of me is enough to push me over. Another surge of light explodes from behind my eyes and a symphony of colors, some real some imagined, coursing through me in all different directions, and the next thing I feel is clenching around my fingers while a large around of wetness coats my fingers and thighs. My entire body lights up from the feeling, millions of tiny explosives going off throughout my body- inside and out- and I can't do anything but sink to the bottom of my shower, letting the water fall over me while I keep my hands in between myself.

I seem to have fallen into a place where neither time nor space exists, only matter. And all that matters, right now, is the feeling that has come over me. This elated feeling where my heart is beating the fastest it ever has and my mind is unable to comprehend anything other than the feeling I've given myself. With wobbly hands, I reluctantly remove my hand from inside of myself, twitching at the feeling when it slides over my still active clit and let it rest underneath the water pouring down from the shower. I don't even think I'm able to form proper sentences at the way my throat seems to constrict on its own. I look down at myself and a lazy smile takes over my face. I can't believe I had the courage to do that.

Relishing in the feeling of the calm that has washed over me, I lean my head back against the wall and release a satisfied sigh. If this is what Santana means by owning my sexuality, I could definitely get used to this.

* * *

><p>- I don't know why I feel the need to explain this chapter, but I will try to do so in a few words. This chapter wasn't in my original plans for this story, but by the time chapter 5 was down on 'paper', this chapter began taking seed. In my mind, Quinn is slowly turning into an adult and while I'm not saying that in order to be an adult you need to go at yourself in a bathroom, I feel that Quinn's sexuality deserves some attention. Well, that's my take on it anyway.<p>

- When highlighting your hair, you really shouldn't get it wet for at least 24 hours after you get it done, but for the purposes of this chapter, let's just pretend like that rule does not exist.

- David Beckham is an English Soccer (football) player. His wife, Victoria Beckham, is also known as Posh Spice.

- The working title for the longest time of this chapter was "Ocean" by John Butler. It's a great song, so I recommend it if anyone wants to give it a listen. If I could put Quinn's moment into music, it would definitely be this piece.

- The title of this chapter is inspired by "Explore, be curious" by Cloudkicker.


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